Hello. My name is Dishy. And I am a blogger.
Eight years ago, before starting my blog, I just had a regular name, Christy. Sure, my kids called me Momma, and my husband called me hotcakes, but that was it. Fast forward 8 years, I have a DISHY license plate, my derby name is Dishy, I still even blog as Dishy, on ocassion. It’s funny how bloggers feel the need to apologize to their audience for lapses in writing, as if readers have been waiting breathlessly for weeks for the next morsel of magic. Like the sky parts the moment you press the PUBLISH button, and suddenly your new post sparks a symphony of clicks worldwide – OH! LOOK WHAT DISHY’S DONE!!!
In my dreams perhaps it is so. I am writing to an audience of millions, with people sending me good thoughts, happy juju, peaceful vibes along the way. Every blogger, after all, writes for a reason, whether it be business, therapy, or fun, but deep down most of us write for fame. Be it in our own minds, or in the minds of others, we seek acknowledgement that we are good at our craft, that our words can transport, bring pleasure, have meaning. We blog because we must. It’s a compulsion; an unquenchably thirsty pursuit that drives our children and partners crazy, sending them sailing from the room, wailing “WHEN WILL YOU BE DONE?” And even then, we’re not really listening.
You see, blogging is more than a hobby. It’s an addiction. Like heroin, one fix and you’re hooked. Blogging is the writer’s equivalent of a baby eating a penny. It looks great from the outside, and seems like a good idea at the time, but you know it’s just gonna back you up. It starts small. One post. PUBLISH. Oh. Look, I got a comment. How nice! I’ll just write back. Oh, I’ll just visit his blog in return – it’s blog etiquette after all. Well, next thing you know, two days have passed and you’re still sitting at the computer in your pajamas. Responding to comments, hitting like, and checking out other people’s blogs is a job. A fun and engaging job, but like any volunteer position, eventually you’re gonna need to clock out and take a shower.
But, it’s hard, I know. When a blogger’s fingers touch the keyboard, there’s a metaphysical melding of mind, body, and spirit, where letters and symbols, memories and thoughts, intent and artistry become one, and words pour forth like snowflakes from the sky. Unique, beautiful, sometimes heavy to shovel, these words blanket our blogs, becoming places and moments in time; a testimony to who and what we are. Blogging is an act of creation. And like every good parent, you long to be with your baby. Checking his stats, wondering when he’s going to get Freshly Pressed, dreaming of the day when he becomes a book. It’s healthy and normal.
8 years after it began, this blog is still here. The friendships I made with fellow bloggers remain warm and caring, as much now as then. But none of us blogs much anymore. We interact through Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and email. We exchange letters through the mail, sometimes gifts at Christmas. Occasionally I stop by their blogs to run my finger through the dust and trace a note DISHY WUZ HERE. But our daily – hourly! interactions through our blogs have faded into the past.
For that, I am sad. All the crazy hijinks, silly stories, and back-and-forth we used to have seems like a life ago, and I miss it. But the beauty of a blog is its timelessness. As long as you don’t hit DELETE, you can always return to the writing. And for that, I am very glad.