I’ve always been the type of person to dream about having a life worth writing about. I’d sit as a retiree and write my life story which would be filled with amusing anecdotes, tragedy, loves and lost loves. I would be just as happy if my life storybook was read by my grandchild as I would be happy that millions of people stormed amazon.com for a copy.
Yesterday I heard some amazing stories about a refugee who served in the Vietnam War. He was very open and honest regarding his feelings towards those who were directly involved and those who involved themselves voluntarily. He had some stories that would make the hairs on your neck stand up and he had some stories that would break your heart. Although I would love to, I won’t repeat these stories here because they were not told to me directly. I heard them second hand.
But after the initial shock of sensory overload, I thought about how his life is one that I would want to read. His life is one worth writing about. He has a story waiting to be written. He’s seen things that some people (including me) would never even dare to conjure up in our imaginations. He’s experienced life in such a way that no human should ever have to.
His story will most likely never be told officially. His story will most likely never be passed down though generations as family history or lessons to be learned. His story, save for the few times he’s actually talked about his experiences, will most likely go to his grave with him.
His life is a great source of inspiration should I ever take the plunge and become an author.
You see, my life does not, in no way at all, compare to his. And it probably never will. I have not done anything in my life that even remotely comes close to actually being worth writing about. I have never climbed Mount Everest, walked the Ho Chi Minh Trail, sailed across the ocean, discovered a cure for a plague, solved some great mathematical problem or had to fight for my own life. I’ve lived a fairly easy life here in Canada and a pretty lazy one too, to be quite honest.
But I do have a blog. Oh, I offer tales about my family, my boyfriend and my cat. Perhaps I might inundate you with my rambling thoughts on pop culture and technology. Once in a while I will dig deep and come up with some sort of revelation that will change the way I view some random incident (like today’s post). Sometimes some of you may even laugh at my witty banter and my poor attempts to satisfy my affinity for “photography”. But is my blog a reflection of my life? Kind of. Is what I write about on my blog true? Yes. Does it come close to covering the chaos of my everyday living? No.
Who even reads my blog? I’m not too sure. I’m probably bookmarked/favorited/tagged/blogrolled by a few more people than those that I know of; those who have commented and became my friends vs those still lurking in the shadows. If there are unknown fans still lurking here after all these years, I double dog dare them to come forward now. State the real reason you still continue to return upon occasion. Is it because I still continue to write? Is it because you can’t figure out how to delete me from your list?
I’ve had this blog for some time now (three years and a bit) and I’ve been reading blogs even longer than that. I remember dooce before she was even “dooced”. But is the quality of my writing comparable to some of those who have more hits than me? I doubt it and maybe that’s why I’ll never be as popular as others out there in the InnerNet. I have though, just recently, stepped up my delurking on some of the blogs that I have been reading for years. This is in effort to open up and become more friendly to those that I feel a connection with. If I did not feel any connection I wouldn’t still be going dropping in to see how their lives are going. Those blogs that I read are those that interest me. Those people are funny, they may have corresponding events to mine, they are downright honest and informative. They are good people. They have experiences that I hope to have one day too.
Do I even really have a life worth writing about? My subject matter must be boring to some people, but then there’s you; my sweet loyal InnerNets who come back day after day and week after week. In the beginning it was my Mum who read this blog. Now I have a few readers whom I consider to be friends and I hope to gain a few more as my archives grow bigger and bigger.
I want to be able to say; my friend down in California just went on a trip to Europe with the love of her life, my friend is speaking at a conference that I am going to attend, my friend just saw Tool in concert and got caught taking pictures and had to dump his memory card but then after that he recovered all his pictures and damned the man anyways. I want to shout out that my friend is going to have her third baby in mid-October and another friend just got a shiny new furnace to match her shiny new water heater. I want to meet these people in person, but am happy to say that I know them already.
So maybe my life is what it is. Maybe my life will never turn into a novel. Big deal. I thank those of you who come to read here everyday even though I am not on the verge of driving across Canada to purchase a coffee at every Tims to raise money for whatever or whatever. How bad is it to use someone else’s highly more interesting life as an inspiration to a story?
spinning… nothing clings like ivy by elvis costello & the imposters.