Have you ever though about where your dreams and aspirations came from? I was just thinking about it. For the longest time, I remember wanting to be an author. It has always been my dream to some degree. But I tried to remember where I got that from: it had to be after I learned to write and began actually writing stories, and sometime before I began writing a small (and forever unfinished) chapter book with my best friend when I was eight, maybe nine?
Somewhere between those two events, I decided I was a writer and that notion has forever stuck with me. My passion is words: spelling them correctly, stringing them together in, not only the most logical and efficient way possible, but also beautifully, stacking sentences on top of one another, making something larger, more grandiose, than it was before. I enjoy finding the perfect description for a moment. I find pleasure in creating something out of thin air for others to enjoy.
Blogging both aids and inhibits this impulse--it's super easy to write something and put it out in the world for someone to read. But there is no quality control. I don't have an editor breathing down my neck to ensure a post's accuracy (or relevancy). I don't have teachers hovering over my work with a red pen. There's just me.
Life as a part-time blogger isn't really all that hard. Brain to fingertips, I tap out my thoughts and spoon-feed them to all of you in a stream-of-consciousness style. It's very easy to downplay the importance of this exercise until I go back to my old blogs (the poor, forgotten livejournals and wordpresses and whatnots), old journals, poetry books, random spiral-bound notebooks filled with my thoughts. And it sparks something magical inside me. It makes me want to write more, and better. It makes me want to write for the rest of my life.