Tuesday, December 28, 2010

What's it really about

This blog doesn't really have a focus.  I have a personal blog on LiveJournal as well as a NeidFyre blog, an unused Myspace account, my website NeidFyre.com, and a facebook account. I twitter constantly, and am fond of FourSquare.  Facebook really isn't the place for blogging. My LiveJournal blog is private. Myspace is not for me. I don't really think blogging in 140 characters or less counts as blogging, and FourSquare is all about Location Location Location. That leaves me here, at Fiddlemama.

Fiddlemama seems to be my catch-all place.  Originally this was where I was going to post my letters and notes to my daughter.  I write my daughter a letter or note every day, you see.  It's more for me than it is for her, but it's something I really wanted to do.  It didn't feel right doing it online, so I have a paper journal for that. That leaves me with the dilemma again of this blog not having a focus.

I've posted about my struggles with ADD here. I've posted about teaching here. I've posted about gigs here. I've posted my poetry here. It still doesn't feel like home, though.  I feel like a guest in my own space, and that's just bloody uncomfortable.

Perhaps the blog doesn't need a focus, and I need to accept it for what it is. I'm not pithy or wise. I am not the most eloquent writer, and my grammar often sucks eggs.  Thank the Gods there's a spell check here, because spelling is not my strongest suit.  This blog isn't here to impress people, it's here for me.  Don't get me wrong, I'd like to impress people.  I'd like to entertain people. I'd like it if this blog started getting hit upon hit, and people did think I was pithy and wise. Of course, none of that will happen if I ignore this space or if I only write once or twice a month. It's hard to talk the talk if I'm not willing to actually do the necessary work.

What do I mean, "do the necessary work"? It means writing. It means making music. It means actually living in the world instead of wandering with insecure purpose. I'm so tired of feeling insecure with my dreams and desires. Who does it serve to live like that? Not my daughter, and certainly not me.

I don't want broken promises, or empty solutions. I'd like some more substance with my subsistence.

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