I just gasped out loud, alone in my apartment, as my hot water for tea boiled and my egg cooked because I forgot today is my blogging anniversary.
10 years ago, I took my friend Melody's suggestion to post the essays I'd been writing. The ones I couldn't keep in my head, the ones that haunted me to be released, as I processed graduating from college and moving back to New York City, after 8 years away in California.
This blog has been a place of solace and hilarity, of logging memories and rants, of working through problems, and quoting friends and family.
I've been sorely neglecting it lately, as I manage orienting myself around another big move, life changes, new job, new relationships.
My resolution in 2017 is to WRITE MORE, and so I have been, a tiny bit every day.
I'm delving into subject matter I've shied away from before, grappling with big questions about identity and family and bad habits and hope. It's not exactly blog-appropriate or ready for public consumption yet, but it's feeling OK.
10 years ago, this blog made me feel like a writer and was how I proved it to myself.
I still don't quite believe that I am one or that I could really be one, even though as I get older that feels more and more like what I really want.
Maybe in honor of [clever title]'s 10th anniversary, I'll try just a little harder to believe.
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