A Small Celebration

A while ago I realized that my blog had scored more than 3000 hits. So I celebrated. I gave myself pleasure-  a delicious chocolate cupcake and a mug of tea while listening to this:

I had a craving for chocolate, for cake, for tea and for this particular song. At that moment in time, it made little sense, but now my delusional mind is creating a link between my choice of music and a divine message delivered to me by the Great Cosmos.

(Nice name for a band- Great Cosmos.)

Anyway, I started this blog more than a year ago. Rereading my first post, dated November 4, 2010, gave me the feeling that this blog was intended to be a literary review place. I don't even remember what I envisioned this would become. I think I wanted to make money, but I don't know what motivated me to continue posting even after Google flat out refused my AdSense.

I started blogging around the time I quit my first job. I quit because the only other employee of this particular SEO company, who also happened to be its owner and my boss, got on my nerves.

Ironically, he was the only person outside of my close group of friends who had ever appreciated my writing, let alone offered me money for it. For the first time, I thought of myself as a writer. A literary whore, so to speak. A few months and a check from a local elite e-magazine (which I stopped working for because it was too mainstream) later, I had the chance to write for a paper. Like, a real paper, printed with ink on paper and distributed on lorries to many corners of the island. It was a tough job and I whined a lot. But I also liked it, a lot.

Around that time, something happened to me. Actually, many things happened, but one thing stands out in importance in this particular context- I turned into a robot. You know them CAPTCHA shit, right? I started failing those. I began spilling out well-structured, grammatically-correct sentences. They dropped one by one, like stones into a pond, sinking lifelessly to its bottom.

Rewind.

A bit about me- I was never trained to write. I'm mostly self-taught. I was actually that girl in specs who sat in the front row of math classes overrun by testosterone. But from the time I could form words, I had been writing. My first original piece was a poem about a Christmas tree. No, I didn't write it in school. I wrote it on Christmas eve, in a breeze of joy after my brother and I had finished decorating the tree in our living room.

Then came my angst-filled years of early teenage. I wrote passionately and prolifically, every single night. Even seeing those pages and pages of discolored exercise books filled with sprawling handwriting about how much I hate my parents gives me shudders. *shudder*

That's how passionate I used to be. But now, in comparison, I'm dead.

I don't write anymore.

Remember I told you I began to think of myself as a writer? That was one of the most embarrassing lies I have ever lived. I read somewhere that no one is ever a writer. We humans, we write. We write to communicate- to prescribe medicine, to instruct how to operate a food processor, to prosecute and kill another for killing. We also write to record history, to vent our frustrations, to change the world.
But no one is ever a writer. The minute you stop writing, you are a writer no more. And if being a writer was your sole identity, you drop dead the minute you lift your pen from paper, or raise your fingers from the keyboard.

Real writers are storytellers, and that is everything I'm not. I fantasize, like all the time. But somehow I have never had the discipline to harness these kinky fantasies of mine and make them cum alive on paper. (Pun intended.)

But I know I want to. Someday.

This post is already too damn long and sleep calls, so I'll finish off by saying that my dream is to someday have the power to make people, my minions the world over, jizz at my command.