Sometimes, and more so lately, I wonder about my need to write, what it is and why I have it. It seems curious even to myself, because I'm not a particularly talkative person, yet I often feel the need to write things, not even important things, just anything which allows me to arrange words, to see them in my head and move them around until it resonates enough in sound and meaning that I can rest and feel satisfied.
And then I wonder about the medium of blogs and how I love the certain society they cultivate, these moments of rare friendship, while at the same time worrying at their tendency to convey a glossier version of life than really exists. I worry it can alienate or lead to disheartened feelings of comparison because, by the looks of this photograph, it would appear my house is constantly teeming with freshly cut flowers and perhaps yours is not.
I speak from experience, knowing how some blogs (or perhaps the crappy day I'm having) can make me feel I'm not cooking with enough organic kale which I picked from my garden during this abundant season of harvest, repurposing enough old baby dresses into quilts, or hosting elaborately themed birthday parties for my fastidious children who never quarrel.
I'm being a bit melodramatic here. I don't really worry about those particular things but would still imagine you have a sense of my point: that blogs, even ones which attempt to be authentic, have a habit of presenting a curated life rather than the messier, completely authentic version. It's a balance we all settle into one way or another, whether we write about it or not.
This is not a fishing expedition, by the way, for your assurances I don't write that way, that Tollipop is not such a blog. I know for myself the balance I'm trying to convey, and I know on any given day it may leave someone feeling wrapped in a warm blanket while someone else feels left out in the cold.
Or possibly neither of those extremes.
Is anyone waiting for me to get to my point? Dear reader, you should know me well enough by now to realize I don't have one. I just wonder about such things, trying to piece them together as I go, hoping my thoughts help me navigate my path more carefully and that if possible, it's a path which brings others along rather than leaving them behind.
I do apologize for the melancholy tone of this post. Yesterday was a bit of a heartbreak because Keats died unexpectedly. I think it's partly why I'm mulling over the whole dynamic of blogging...how uncurated this sadness feels and how I would rather keep it to myself, yet feel weirdly obligated to say something since I've been gushing on about him to this point.
This seems like poor timing to announce a blogging break. I'm not so fragile I can't rally from feelings of self doubt or the loss of a dear little friend, but I do need to step away from Tollipop for the next while. The greater reason is simply we are getting busier and I need to use my time more wisely. Ouch. It hurts to say that. There's a part of me which secretly hopes this blog is a wise use of time, somehow, but it's not a very practical use of time and right now I need to be a little more of that.