Writing. It’s what I do. I’m a freelance writer. It’s been a part of my identity since I wrote little newspapers for my family (you might be familiar with my exposé piece, “Spaghetti for dinner: Fourth night in a row”). But I’m just now reluctantly jumping on the blogwagon.
I think that comedian Mike Birbiglia articulated my sentiment best when he said he’s embarrassed to say he has a blog, because everybody has a blog. Communicating the minutia of their lives in dull statements more closely resembling text messages.
Along with the contrarian in me revolting against starting a blog, the deep-seated old-school journalist in me considers the printed word to be far superior to the unedited smut that anyone can throw up on the inter-Web. Working as a newspaper reporter, I had my outlet. Nothing could be more rewarding than publishing articles read by the community I lived in. But that’s not the case anymore. That was my golden era of writing, but now I’m living in Golden, Colo., trying to eek out a career as a freelance writer. Living in an area of former Rocky Mountain News employees and hordes of other writers. Well, if I’m gonna’ be a dime a dozen, I might as well have an outlet for my musing. And if you’ve gotten this far, thanks for reading.
Though my husband had encouraged me to start a blog a while ago, the real impetus came from an author and journalist I’ve been working for, Cathie Beck. After telling her some ideas I had to write about but not knowing where they’d fit in, she suggested putting them all on a blog. “The worst that could happen is that someone reads it,” she said.
That did it.
The worst that can happen is that you are reading this right now. Well, I suppose that’s not entirely true, you could hate it and then post something mean. But a wise journalism credo is that if you’re getting hate mail that means you have readers.
So here I am, just another blogger wading through the literary waters of the digital age. Doing what any writer worth their salt does.