existential crisis, or, am I a blogger?

As much work as I've put into this place, I never really intended to become a blogger. I started this blog as a way to write about my frustrations and adventures trying to be a playwright. I was getting rejected every step of the way and was just feeling terrible about it. I was really beginning to think that no one would ever get to hear my work and that I was just writing for myself. As a result of that frustration and isolation, I decided to start a blog after rejecting the idea for years. It's fairly evident that I'm not a terrific prose writer. I can get by, but it's definitely not my strongsuit. I always have so many thoughts going through my mind that trying to put them into a coherent blog entry is like trying to use one lasso to control an entire pen of bucking broncos. I did it though. I started this blog almost three years ago and have amassed a small, but devoted group of readers who I am infinitely grateful for.

But if someone asked me what kind of writer I was, I would not say "I am a blogger". I would say "I am a playwright". I probably wouldn't even mention the blog, to be honest. What does that say about blogging, and my relationship to it?

What no one tells you about blogging is that it is a shitload of work if you want it to be any good. I'd be lying if I said that I didn't care about increasing my readership and getting comments and all that good stuff - I certainly do - but at the same time I do wonder if sometimes the balance tips towards my spending so much time maintaining the blog and not having enough time to, you know, be a playwright and stuff. I do think that this writing "counts" (in that it gives me a lot of practice and sort of a routine), but at the same time, it doesn't matter one bit if I have a blog or not when it comes to writing plays.

It has also occurred to me that I'm not really that interesting, at least not interesting in the way that bloggers seem to be interesting. As I said, I'm not astonishingly great at prose, and I fail all the other criteria for being an Awesome Blogger. I'm not that young (28 seems fucking ancient in the blogosphere). I'm not single (that pretty much kills your cred). I don't have casual sex (ditto). I don't write in great detail about my sex life with my husband (because it's none of anyone's business). I don't have a kid and don't really plan on it. I don't really blog about food (cooking it or eating it). I don't live in the cool borough. I don't hang out with celebrities. I don't go to clubs. I rarely stay out past 1 am. I don't read 18 books a week. I don't obsessively self promote. I will never win a "Best Blog" award on any website. I have never attended a BlogHer conference. I don't blog on Huffpo/Gawker/whathaveyou. Am I doing it wrong, internet?

My uninteresting little life is a far happier and more wonderful thing than my formerly interesting life. My late teens/early 20's were super eventful (and probably interesting), but rife with drama and unbearable heartache. I suppose the theater thing is marginally interesting, but what makes another struggling artist in NYC so special? Shit, 75% of the streets here are paved with the dreams of every dumb kid who's ever moved here thinking they would be a special little snowflake. The other 25% are paved with the bitterness of the ones who stayed despite finding out that they're not.

And yet, despite this nagging feeling like this is an exercise in futility, I still feel like I have a responsibility to keep this thing going. I've put an incredible amount of work into it and I have invested a lot of emotional energy. I also have readers who love me and I love them back. There are just days when I feel more like a blogger than anything, and I didn't even really WANT to be a blogger. But now that I am, I can't really imagine not doing it.

(P.S. I apologize for my horrendous abuse of parentheses in this post. Dear Lord, someone take the "9" and "0" key away from me until I can learn to control myself.)