First time calling

I read a lot of blogs. I don't know any of the people I read about, but I know intimate details of their lives. I shamefully admit, I used to subscribe to US Magazine, in order to gawk at the lives of celebrities. I still read Perezhilton.com on a somewhat regular basis. I subscribe to Livejournal (yes, my face is aglow in shame), but only to read other people's journals. I rarely post about myself. And most recently I have discovered (become addicted) to Facebook. I plug names of elementary school friends into the search engine, hoping to discovery someone I haven't seen in 15 years. I scan photos of old high school friends and wonder about them. All I can conclude is they are probably completely different people, but when they see my picture, they remember me exactly as I was when I was sixteen.

I was reading the blog of an old high school classmate, and I discovered some pretty incredible things about her. As I was reading about her adventures and mistakes and life changing events, I remembered something about myself. I used to write. I wasn't a very good writer, and I don't believe anyone would actually want to read anything I wrote. But that doesn't mean I didn't try and make them. That's what bad writers do- they shove their writing on anyone/everyone they can, and then they ask their unfortunate audience for a review of their bad writing.

And now I teach English, and I never, ever write. That's not entirely true. I write emails. Occasionally I write very heartfelt emails, especially to people I know will never write back- like the blog people whose lives I'm completely invested in yet who have no idea I even read about them. Is that existentialist? Sometimes I write emails to my former teachers- the kind of gushy, treacly, "you inspired me to be a teacher" crap that I know I'll never get from my own students (the damn ingrates). I also write comments to random internet communities. I write lists- lists of things I need, things I want, things I need to do, grocery lists, to-do lists, I find lists to be comforting. They are very containable. But I don't just write. I think the last time I wrote anything without a purpose was in a poetry class I took in college. Some of my poems were good. Most were not. I don't know why I stopped writing. I guess I just didn't need to anymore. I used to keep journals, where I would record the tumultuous changes in my emotional climate. I have a big box of these, that I haul with me everytime I move. Most of my journal entries were about boys who slighted me. Then I got married, and I had less to write about in that domain. Dave has flaws, but he doesn't cause me the same heart-wrenching anguish that the ones before him did. Writing journal entries about leaving wet towels on the bed or wearing ugly shirts is not really all that necessary or cathartic.

So why did I start a blog? I'm not sure, to be honest. Maybe I miss writing. I've been reticient in the past about sharing my life publicly, but in some ways, I find it kind of thrilling to have strangers read about me. I'm thrilled by small things. So I'm going to try this out and see where it goes. Even if it goes nowhere.