Why I Continue To Blog (Even Though I Do It So Incorrectly)

First, I want to thank all those in the WordPress community for their valued insight into this thing we do.  Of course, I’m talking about blogging.

And as much as I appreciate the critique, support and suggestions, I always come away from reading them with the idea that I’m not doing very well the things that they say I should be doing.  I mean, I don’t write every day, one of the main things needed to build a base of readers.  And I’m not that up on SEO, search engine optimization, a skill necessary if you’re going to do anything online these days.

So it’s no wonder I find myself a tad discouraged now and then about where I am with what I’d hoped to accomplish.  But then I remind myself why I got into this thing in the first place.

“A writer writes, always!

The first story I ever wrote was done in the first grade; a futuristic tale of space pirates, detectives and intrigue, no matter that I didn’t even know what the word intrigue meant at the time.  Since then I dabbled here and there with this or that but always found solace in writing.

So here I am years later, on the downslope of life, trying to see if there’s anything to be gained by this talent that I have, or think I have.   It’s a little late, I know, but better late than never is a tenet I’ve always liked to use when and wherever possible.

I write because I enjoy it; it’s as simple as that.  I like to express myself by putting those inner most thoughts to ink and then to paper.  I do it for myself as much as for anyone else but do appreciate the fact that others enjoy reading what I’ve put together.  I’d like to think that I would still be doing this if I only had one person following me.  It’s like that proverbial author who writes a book, sells only a couple of hundred copies and is happy with that.

You see, this is my art, my true medium.  When perched at the keyboard, I see myself as Hemingway, seated on some lonely beach in the tropics, fishing pole in the sand, writing “The Killers”.  When I attempt to write poetry, I’m hoping to become Robert Frost or Henry Thoreau cataloging expressively the mundane yet beautiful things (not always in my case) seen in the ordinary, everyday scheme of existence.

Less I get too bogged down in Existentialism; I’ll just say again that I do this because I enjoy doing it.  And isn’t that why we all do it?  At least I hope it is, because once we stop enjoying what we do, what we do becomes a hated and despised task in our life.  And we already have enough of those, thank you very much.

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