Centennial

A very happy Christmas Eve to those of you who celebrate the day... and a happy evening in general to those who do not :)

I have a bit of a gift for you: my 100th post! Perhaps that's more a gift to myself, but hey, who's counting?

I've been thinking about this one for the past few days. I'll be the first to admit that most of my blog posts as of late have been mostly just faffing about. I've been busy, and somewhat stressed, and therefore that's more or less what I've babbled about... yet you've stuck with me regardless. Bless you all.

A 100th post, however, seemed to merit some thought and, indeed, a bit of planning. After mulling it over, I determined that the best thing to write about would be... writing.

I would be hard-pressed to describe myself as "a writer." Don't get me wrong, I enjoy writing--very much. Having always been a big fan of reading, the two just seemed to go hand-in-hand. I love words. If there really was "Word of the Day" toilet paper, I would buy it. (And considering how often I go to the bathroom, my vocabulary would be expansive!).

Yet I wouldn't call myself a writer. Perhaps when I was younger, but now? A million other descriptors come rushing to mind long before that one ever would.

And my reaction whenever someone comments on my blog and calls me a great writer? It's interesting.

On one hand, sure, I know that I write well. I never bat an eyelash at having to write papers for school (though there is much batting at the research involved, to be certain!), and I can generally predict within the half hour how long a given writing assignment will take.

Trying to make that complaint letter to your credit card company sound professional? I'm on it. Writing your entrance essay to Harvard's PhD program? Of course I'll proofread it (yes, she got in!).

I've got a little novella that I tend to work on only when I'm in a particularly shitty mood--it oozes misanthropy from each and every letter. And here I am, writing my 100th blog post.

Yet I honestly don't take my blog as seriously as many bloggers do. I believe I have saved a post in my "drafts" folder precisely once--because I knew it was a piece of mindless drivel and wasn't quite ready to admit it just yet. It was deleted roughly an hour later. For the most part? I write whatever I'm thinking about, whatever randomness has popped into my head. I'll read it over a few times, checking for grammar and spelling--but I'm a bit of a perfectionist, I do that with all of my email as well (was it Samantha who said she did the same?).

So when someone compliments my writing here, I've got to admit that there's a little part of my brain that says "...Really?"

Not that I want to you stop, of course... let's not go crazy. And I always have been my own harshest critic.

But am I a writer?

I still don't know the answer to that. Which, really, is completely fine. There are many, many questions to which I do not have the answers--I have no qualms with adding this one to the list.

And of course you all will be the first to know should I ever figure it out.

Thanks for coming along for the ride.