I’m sitting at one of those tiny tables at Starbucks, writing, and a man at the next table leans in and says, “So you’re a blogger?”
I’m not sure how to answer. For one, I’m a little taken aback at the fact that he just admitted to reading my screen. Granite, my eyes wander when I’m sitting near a person on a laptop. Most often I’m curious if someone’s working on a screenplay or a manuscript. And since I spend my days in Starbucks, most often, that’s what I see. But that’s where it ends. I’m more likely to air guitar in the middle of the lobby than lean in and ask someone about their private work. But as I’ve stated before, I’m rarely the initiator of a conversation. and wouldn’t dare admit to my peaking habits.
This man, however, isn’t me.
What I wanted to say was yes, I’m one of the millions of people out there hoping to write a creative enough blog that will stir up a following of people, who will enjoy reading my writing. Because I love to write. Because I long to inspire people with my words; instill in them a desire to create; bring others joy with stories I’ve imagined.
But I didn’t. Instead, I smiled sheepishly and said, “Not really. It’s just something to keep me busy between jobs.”
In all honesty, I can’t seem to own up to the fact that I’m blogging. I feel like I’ve failed because I’ve started this thing. Because I’m now one of the masses. Like a celebrity producing her own perfume line–it’s been done to death. And yet, what’s all the fuss? So, I blog. Big deal? It’s my creative outlet. It’s my writing exercises. It’s my free time. Who cares that a myriad of others do it? We can all do it. It’s the individual that makes each blog different.
So the next time someone leans in over my americano, asking me if I’m a blogger, I’ll nod proudly.
And then write a post about it.
(Check out other posts: inevitable conversations of a girl with a laptop.)