Tag Archives: lessons

What I’ve Learned from Blogging

Someone asked me how long I’ve been blogging, and just like when asked what my natural hair color is, I kind of blanked out. But long story short, I would say three or four years.

Over that time I’ve come to learn certain things, like I rarely make a long story short and how to make a picture bigger than a thumbnail (this took two years, people.) And while I know it’s boring to write about blogging, I thought I would share a few things I’ve learned (the first one evidently being I can write about whatever I want to.)

WHAT I’VE LEARNED FROM BLOGGING

Why I Write

I write because I have to. It gets me out of my head and makes me feel productive and creative and useful. When I feel I have nothing to say, I get pissy. When I get on a roll, I get almost annoyingly cheerful. I feel emotion, which is rare, and that’s how I know it’s important to me.

I Can Be Funny

I’ve learned it’s okay to be confident and I think I can be pretty funny. While that will never lead to fame and fortune, I like knowing I make someone laugh or think—even if it’s only my mom. Hi, Mom!

People Are Awesome

I can connect with a bazillion awesome people that I would never have met otherwise, and honestly, you people save my life. I never really thought I “needed” people, but I do. And to those who say “online friends” aren’t real, I will counter with the fact that if cyber bullying can and does exist, so can cyber connections.

So there.

You Can Click Away

Not everyone will like you and you won’t like everyone else. You don’t have to tell everyone all your opinions. People will disappoint you. Their blogs will change, they will sell out or maybe you’ll just grow apart. Don’t take it personally, and don’t begrudge them for choosing their path—even if that path is really annoying and lame.

Social Media Can Rock

On one hand, it’s awesome because you can connect with the bazillion awesome people I mentioned above. When I promote a post, it’s not for validation—it’s because I think you might like it and I want to share. And I love my blog’s Facebook page and comments because people interact and make me laugh or think. Muah! Big cyber air kiss!

Social Media Can Suck

But on the other hand, holy hell with the requests for retweets and sharing and a constant barrage of all the things! It’s come to the point where the writing is no longer enough. Now it’s about getting read, no matter what is written, and getting tweeted, pinned, Facebooked, etc. by the greatest number of people.

The end some posts read like a totem pole with eight different icons of where you can find the blogger who is so busy writing and building a brand that they don’t have time to read your blog but be sure to read theirs, share the post and vote for them in a contest!

No thanks. I don’t understand Instagram, Redditt, etc. and YouTube has a video of a turtle eating a raspberry that I’m pretty cool with.

See “click away” point up above.

It’s a Hobby

I get that there’s a constant blogging popularity contest going on, but when it comes to aggressively pimping myself out, I’ll pass.

It would be great to be able to make a living doing something I love, but not at the expense of authenticity or what minimal sanity I have left. I read blogs I enjoy. I don’t read blogs I don’t enjoy, even if they’re “OHMYGOD the most connected blogger ever.”

At the end of the day, there are millions of blogs out there and only so many eyes to read them, with even fewer dollars to support them. If you’re in it for the money, good luck with that.

I Can Only Be Me

I can be naive. I can be vulnerable. When I can’t write I stress out a bit, but only because I want to entertain you. Or more likely because I  had to wear a “real” bra for more than five hours, which is probably the reason. Let’s be honest.

But long story short, I have issues. So do you.

I’ve learned that that’s more than okay.

Like the blog? Buy the books!

What have you learned from writing or reading blogs?

The Starfish

For some reason, this story has been running through my head a lot lately:

“An old man was walking along the beach and saw in the distance a young boy who appeared to be dancing and gyrating at the ocean’s edge. As the man got closer, he realized that the boy was not dancing at all. The tide had gone out, beaching thousands and thousands of starfish. The boy was throwing starfish one after the other back into the ocean so that they might survive. starfish-beach

“Son, you can’t possibly throw all of those starfish back,” the old man said. “How can what you are doing possibly matter?”

As the boy threw yet another starfish back into the safety of the ocean, he replied, “It mattered to that one.”’

This isn’t a new story by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s always stuck with me, and as I said, it’s been running through my head lately. I’m not sure why, but I think it has something to do with the fact that in today’s modern society of hyper-connectedness there is often a lack of the basic things that truly bring people together—a smile, a kind word, a simple gesture.

I’m in no way tooting my own horn, but there are a lot of times I’ve felt frustrated . While I know I don’t do these things for acknowledgement or attention, the lack of response can cause me to ask, “How can what I’m doing possibly matter?” 

And there are times I know I’m on the other end, when I’m stuck in my head and blind to the simple things that could help pull me out, or at the very least, make me smile.

But while there is a lot of evidence to the contrary, I would like to think that at their core, most people are good. For whatever reason—be it a fear of rejection, simple selfishness, a lack of confidence—I think many people just keep a lot of that “good” inside instead of letting others know.

Which is really too bad, as people often underestimate the impact of a few kind words. That doesn’t mean everyone will care or that you have to go around farting rainbows and glitter, but it’s unfortunate when you stop trying, as those are probably the times when a little kindness is needed the most.

So the moral of the story is that every time you read a blog post you like and don’t comment, a starfish dies.

No, that’s not true. I’m kidding.

These things I know—you get what you give. It can be hard at times to remember, but there is a lot of good.

I remember the starfish.

I remember that to that one person, it could matter.

I remember that it matters to me.

This post is in response to the Studio30 Plus prompt:

“These things I know…”

What is one thing you “know?” It doesn’t have to be serious, as I’m in the mood to learn something new…

Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll

We slept together—literally.

I spent the night in his oversized T-shirt in his undersized bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering why it was spinning, his soft laughter in my ears when I shared with him my wonder. 

He acted like a complete gentleman that night, despite the fact that I wanted him to be anything but that at the time.


At 21 and newly single, I had fallen into a pattern of discovery.

I was finally free to discover just who I was and what I wanted to do, with the answer shifting as quickly as the company I kept. New friends, new experiences—I was finally free to discover that I didn’t need to know, that I could choose my own adventure.

Most nights were spent at the bar—working first, playing second—short shorts and long nights. I countered my good girl image with a raw sexuality and harmless flirting that left them confused and intrigued, not unlike myself at that point. I was getting culture—bar culture—and discovering more every night.

He was a local celebrity of sorts, a regular at the bar and a bit older than me. Our love of sports and sarcasm made us fast friends. I was invited to game-day parties and cookouts, making new friends and no plans, discovering the fun in spontaneity and Stoli.


That day was hot and full of cool drinks, more than I could count. There was hummus and things on the campfire, pitchers of drinks that fueled guitars and singing and dance.

To this day I still associate the last song I remember hearing them play as I sat around the campfire, a bottomless glass in my hand and a fuzzy recollection of time—The Rolling Stones, no less. 

The ride home is a blur, as is much of that night, but I know where I ended up last. In his oversized T-shirt in his undersized bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering why it was spinning, his soft laughter in my ears when I shared with him my wonder.

He acted like a complete gentleman that night, despite the fact that I wanted him to be anything but that at the time.

Yes, the first time I slept with a man after sleeping with someone so wrong for so long, I learned a little about sex, drugs and rock and roll.

ucantalwaysgetwhatuwant

(Even if you don’t know it at the time.)

This trip down memory lane was in response to the Red Dress Club RemebeRED prompt:

The first time I _____ after ________.

How would you fill in the blank?