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Blogging seems to be a strange mix of stress relief and added pressure, at least for me. Yes, dumping all of my thoughts here is an amazing relief. Telling other people – even strangers – about my problems somehow alleviates them, and I am grateful. I don’t entirely get why it works, but I suppose it’s enough that it does.

On the other hand, I feel a definite need to impress people with what I’ve written on whatever level. If I’ve been told I write well, and any of these individual posts is boring, or redundant, or lackluster in some way… then maybe that means I’m not a good writer, after all. As I type this, it sounds crazy, even to me. I can only imagine how it would seem to anyone else. I can only promise that in my head, as it’s happening, it’s very real. On any given day, I might know I’m a good writer, or my confidence could be absent entirely, leaving me questioning, well, just about everything.

Sometimes when I post I have a plan, a clear vision of what I’m going to say and exactly how I want to express it. Others I’m flying blind, feeling the need to write but not knowing anything at all ahead of time. When I read the resulting post, I’m often unsatisfied. I worry that the reader will be unsatisfied as well, and that’s a scary thing. What if people stop reading? What if I’m just screaming my thoughts into the void?

The idea of no one at the other end is terrifying, trust me. I wouldn’t be good at the whole message in the bottle thing. I need to be know that I’m being heard, and worse, I want to believe that the person on the other end gets it. Of course, if I’m blogging to many instead of emailing just one person, the odds that each of the readers will get it – and get me – would drop. At least I’d imagine they would… not a happy thought, that. Or maybe I should take the opposing viewpoint and assume that with many readers (“many” in this case means more than one, just so we’re clear) at least one of them is bound to understand me. I suppose that depends upon who’s reading, though.

You can tell what a messy place my head is, yes? I hope so. I try to tidy it up from time to time, for appearances. Straighten the throw pillows, dust… or at least dust the places people are likely to see. My mental housekeeping skills are as dubious as my real-life ones.

Dear God. And this is what I want to do for a living? Writing, obviously, not blogging. For money? Talk about pressure. Terrifying. To have to produce, with some amount of confidence, something that someone other than I will perceive as having real value. Something with enough value that they might be willing to pay me for it? I don’t know how writers stand it. I don’t know if I could stand it. Just imagining it makes me feel as if I am standing on a very high diving board, and looking down at the pool I realize there’s no water. And I’m naked.

So, writing as a potential career option… good idea?

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