It’s Not Personal…It’s Blogging (Updated)

Updated 3/26: Read this post, too. Issa from Issa’s Crazy World, is another one of those totally lovely and very talented writers I adore. Her writing is honest and funny and heartbreaking. I would hate for her to disappear from the blogosphere because of the direction blogging is going.

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A couple of weeks ago I wrote a post about trying to find my niche in blogging and wondering if I really needed one. I had forgotten that I started this blog because I wanted an outlet to write and, if I was lucky, to connect with other people. I’ve been better about not obsessing over my stats (I still peek once in a while!), and about just trying to write without over-thinking  it.

It seems that I’m not the only one wrestling with this.

This week the buzz word online is “Branding.” I can’t read through my Twitter stream or feed reader without seeing post after post about how to Brand Your Blog, Re-Brand Your Blog, and How to Turn Your Blog Into a Business. There are the elite few who actually make their living doing this, but for most of us, we’d be lucky if our blogs made enough to buy a cup of coffee. Or a gumball. (Are they still only a penny?)

By writing about their lives, Dooce and The Pioneer Woman (just two examples) have become brands.  And they’ve extended their brands into books, TV and, in The Pioneer Woman’s case, a movie about her life. Marriage, babies, poop, pets, cooking and a host of other ordinary topics—personal topics—are relatable to most woman. And men. Their blogs, which most likely started the same way as most of ours, have become the model that many of us want.

Am I jealous? Totally!

Sort of.

I’d love to be able to make a living doing what I love (preferably at home in my sweats). But the irony in all of that is that there are some fantastic writers out there who are doubting themselves and the worthiness of their blog posts because they aren’t earning ridiculous amounts of money from advertising deals or making the rounds on the talk show circuit. They aren’t branded.

The Business of Blogging is a little depressing.

One my my favorite writers—Yvonne of Joy Unexpected just wrote a great post about feeling intimidated to write on her own blog right now. It seems like a lot of bloggers are caught up in stats and writing Something Important About Important Topics, and making money, and writers like Yvonne, who just like to write about the everyday things—the small snippets of life that build something bigger and more meaningful—are trying to figure out where they fit in.

What was also interesting to me about that post is that Tanis from The Redneck Mommy, who has a huge readership, commented, saying she “misses the freedom of just writing whatever the hell it is that I want to without worrying about ad revenue, sponsorships or even my audience.”

To me, that comment speaks volumes.

The pressure to regularly deliver interesting content while keeping stats and readership up to keep your advertisers happy must take a lot of the fun out of blogging. It’s incredible that bloggers have been taken seriously and are treated as professionals. I love that they’re treated as Writers (with a capital W). It’s awesome that anyone has been able to make money, or land a job, or become a household name because of their blog.

I just hope that these women—and countless others—continue to get personal and keep telling their great stories because they have inspired me to write again.

Although, if Starbucks wanted to sponsor my blog, I certainly wouldn’t turn them down.

I'd like a Triple Venti Skinny Vanilla Latte, please!

Snuggles

When I was sprawled in the couch tonight, Gracie jumped up and made herself at home on top of me. At some point when she was getting comfortable her foot kicked my laptop and she somehow opened the Photo Booth program and took the first photo. I took the second.

I think her photography skills are better than mine.

Watching Dancing With The Start. Photography by Gracie

Photography by Mo

While The Husband Is Away…This Wife Don’t Get To Play

My husband is traveling.

And while I miss him, I look forward to having time to myself. Deep down (okay, not really all that deep), I’m a loner. I need to be by myself sometimes. Otherwise I go into overload. When he’s gone,  I like to watch what I want, when I want; sit in bed and eat chips and dip and apples for dinner without hearing any shit about it; I like to give myself facials and apply face masks, check out my pores in the mirror; and once in a while, I’ll pee with the bathroom door open so I can see the TV.

Do you remember that episode of  Sex and the City where the girls talk about Secret Single Behavior? It’s like that. Basically, I like to do all those things you do when you live alone—the things you probably wouldn’t do in front of your spouse or roommate.

But it’s not meant to be, apparently. There’s a conspiracy to make sure that I don’t have more than 5 uninterrupted minutes to myself. Because even though I’m 40 years old, I am not to be trusted to be alone in my own house.

My parents invited me come out over the weekend, so I spent a couple of days with them. On the drive home I must have gotten 373 phone calls from them to make sure I was getting home safely. Apparently, when my husband is gone I lose all ability to drive rationally and safely. (And, you know, answering the phone every two minutes while I’m driving isn’t dangerous—at all.)

I pull up to my house Sunday afternoon, unload the dog and my bag, walk into the house, close the garage door and in the time it takes me to walk from the garage to the bedroom, there’s someone at my front door. I knew immediately who it was.

I’ve affectionately dubbed the neighbors across the street The Kravitz’. They are very sweet but it’s like having my parents live across the street. They know everything that goes on at our house. I’m usually greeted with “Wow, you guys got home late last night.” Or “So I saw all those shopping bags you brought home.” Or my favorite: “It took you so long to bring your trash cans in that I just did it for you.”

They mean well, but after all these years, they don’t understand that loner part of me.

So…back to the door.

The doorbell rings,. My instinct is to pretend I didn’t hear it, that I was in the bathroom. But Mr. Kravitz is too experienced (and patient) for that. So I went to the door. He very nicely invited me over for dinner that night. I begged off because I was tired (and really, because I just spent the entire weekend with my real parents).

“Are you sure? It’s going to be good.”

“I know it is, and I really appreciate it, but I’ve been gone all weekend and I’m tired and have a few things to take care of to get ready for the week.” [Translation: I want to put my sweats on, paint my toes, catch up on Grey's Anatomy and take a hot bath.]

“Yes, but you have to eat dinner.”

“I’m fine, but I appreciate it.”

“SIGH. Okay, let me know if you change your mind.”

About 15 minutes later Mrs. Kravitz calls.

“I know Mr. Kravitz already invited you but I just wanted to make sure you knew we haven’t eaten yet and you’re still welcome to come over. I know Bill is gone so we want to make sure you’re okay.”

I told her what I told Mr. K and thanked her.

For the rest of the night the phone rang off the hook. If it wasn’t Mr. and Mrs. Kravitz (“Everything okay over there?”) it was my parents (“Are you okay? Are you afraid?)

Monday morning, I was running a little late for work and when I finally opened the garage door to leave (10 minutes late) Mr. Kravitz was walking across the street to make sure I was…what? Awake? Not dead?

Last night, I settled into a hot bath and the phone rang. Obviously, I didn’t answer it.

It rang again.

I couldn’t quite hear the voice mail.

Until it rang again.

“MAUREEN!!!! THIS IS YOUR MOTHER! ARE YOU THERE? WHERE ARE YOU?? PICK UP THE PHONE!”

Holy fucking shit. My mother was having a meltdown because she couldn’t get me on the phone right then. It was like 9:00 p.m. so where the hell would I be? Um, in the tub?

So I hauled my wet ass up the hallway to get the phone, while simultaneously trying not to electrocute myself and slip and fall.

“Where were you? Why didn’t you pick up the phone?” The terror was palpable.

“Jesus, Mom. I was in the tub.”

“Well, why didn’t you take the phone with you?”

“Shit, I don’t know. Because I was trying to relax???”

“How did I know you weren’t dead? Or hurt. Answer the damn phone when I call.”

“Mom, you can’t freak out if I don’t pick up the phone right way. Don’t assume I’m dead. Or hurt. Or anything. I can’t do this every freaking day.”

“So you’re fine.” [imagine ice cold tone, hurt voice]

“Yes. I’m fine. I’m soaking wet. Can I go back to the tub now?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Take the phone with you. I don’t mind.”

“But I do.”

Seriously, she got pissy with me and hung up all hurt and dejected.

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When did I become an invalid? When did getting married mean that I could no longer function as an individual? I used to live alone. I came and went without having to answer to anyone. I could have my lights on late without getting a phone call asking me if I was okay and why was I still up? I didn’t have to report to anyone when I came or went.

I appreciate everyone looking out for me. I really do. But I just want to have my time to myself. Just me and the dog. And my face masks. And the open bathroom door.

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PS Bill: If you’re reading this, thanks a fucking lot. I know this is your doing!

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PSS Eve: If YOU’RE reading this, I know you know the Kravitz’. PLEASE don’t EVER tell them about this blog.

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