I don’t even read Babble, so I’m not sure why every year I roll my eyes at their Top 100 Mom Blogs. I read probably half or more out of those 100 chosen and I am proud as hell of those who made it (more so the new people because there are some bloggers who, yes, they’re great BUT GIVE SOMEONE ELSE A SHOT OR MAKE A LIST OF 105, damn.) This is in no way anger, understand. I am not angry not to be on this list. I know to make the list one must be pretty damn great. Regularly great. I am occasionally great. I am not always great (and wait, no, let’s amend that. Some of the women on the list aren’t always great either. They can’t all be gems, y’all. But. They are serious about their writing/blogging/living and telling about it. I haven’t been. Not regularly.)
It makes me think about the whole blogging business. I never started this blog for my kids. Hell, half the shit I write my kids need to be adults to read it, so, no. I started this blog for me. I love to write. I am eventually going to find a full time job that pays me to write, to write about what I want to write about because I write well. I know plenty of bloggers who didn’t make the list who are fantastic writers and perhaps simply outside of what seems to be a big ole friendship of friends who are friends who have been friends for years and now will forevermore be, friends at Babble.
If nothing else, I am glad to have 40+ new blogs to read and give the gift of my commenting, commiserating, head nodding, yup that’s right, girl-ing.
I write for me (which is why I haven’t been writing as regularly as I should. The me in this relationship has been having a few dark days filled with woe is me, what’s it all for, where am I going, who am I, where am I. She is such a needy drama queen.) It’s why I couldn’t complete NaBloPoMo. I simply didn’t want to (couldn’t bring myself to?) write every day. I know that I should, though (and truth be told, I do write every day, just not always publishable stuff. Some stuff stays in my regular old handwritten on legal pads I stole from whatever law firm I worked for at the time.) I also try to be genuine in my writing, knowing that some reader, somewhere, is benefiting from something I’ve said or done or experienced or royally screwed up and decided to write about.
Now I’m struggling to find the purpose of this post. I think initially I was kind of angry like really, again, no recognition? Then I had to examine why I am seeking recognition from a site I don’t even read, why I feel slighted for not having my semi-regularly more oft than not non-greatness heralded for all the interwebs to know. Meh. It’s the life of the writer, I guess. We seek solitude but then want someone to recognize how well we write about our solitude. We create largely alone, then want everyone to yell about our creation. But no one knows about our mind’s greatness, our ability to make poop and vomit and marriage and life and threadbare verges of crazysound so damned poetic if we aren’t writing. I am looking at you, me.
And then I realized the purpose of this post. It’s for me, as is the majority of things I write (except that one about shitting on myself. That one was for you.) I need to recommit to the business of writing. I have to. I won’t ever find a writing job that I want, that I know wants and deserves my talent, my wit, ALL OF ME, unless I do. Besides, I apply for jobs and the first thing they ask is what have you written, where have you been published. And then I give a deadpan Spongebob-like uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh idunno.
This is me fixing that.
Like I told Mir on nearly every post she wrote this year, 2013 is going to make 2012 its bitch in so many worthwhile ways.
Edited a couple hours later to add: There will never be a way to accurately reflect all of the blogs (mom or otherwise). There will always be another blog that someone thinks is worthy. There are plenty I think are worthy for many lists; Babble’s is but one. I didn’t make the cut this year (was I really trying? No. Do I think I am in the right “circle” for this list? No. Doesn’t make the honor any less awesome for those who were chosen, though), but there are lots of lists created by lots of people who don’t know my level of awesome. For instance, I also don’t have a Man Booker Prize. For that, I’d need a novel, just as I’d need an updated and regularly great blog to be on Babble’s list. While I know 2013 is a year full of wonder for me (I have claimed it!), maybe the Babble list is still not going to happen. And you know what? That’s OK. I’m not writing to get on lists. I’m writing for me and my own sanity and happiness and eventually employment. I’m writing for those readers who laugh and nod with me, who shake their fists at the inanity of lists that can’t possibly know about all of us who are pretty damned great. And then it hit me: it’s their loss, y’all.