One thing that's been on my mind since returning from San Francisco and the "blogging thing at that cool hotel," as my dad called it, is the nagging question of where I take this site from here? I started this blog on a whim of sorts. I had been blogging at MySpace for years (and in reviewing those old posts, SWEET LORD, did I need an English refresher), but after I spent an entire day last April devouring Amalah's archives, I decided I also wanted a space with prettier sidebars and fewer naked 14-year-olds. I set-up a Typepad account and off I went. I was a month away from getting married at the time, and even though it still makes me cringe to look back on those first poorly put-together posts, I am glad I have some sort of record of that time. I wrote my vows to Mike in one of those early posts and since I've since lost the cocktail napkin I first wrote them on, and I can't honestly remember where our wedding video is, there's something very cool about having a record of those words.
The first day my blog was officially viewable to the Internet, I had exactly one page view. (Which was probably by me. Or Mike.) A few weeks ago I had my highest daily page view count at 1220. It usually averages somewhere in the middle of those two numbers. Do I care about my page views? Sure, in the same way I think most people do. I like to know that what I'm putting out there is being read and enjoyed, and it's also kind of fascinating in a way. But am I writing these posts and am I maintaining this site so people will boost my ego or so I can have a place to hone my writing skills and meet people who understand where I'm coming from? It's a really good question, and I'd like to say that it's unequivocally the latter, hands down, but we're all pretty gray-area people, aren't we? (Wait, aren't we?) When my traffic dips—and if I'm paying attention to it—my nerves sort of fray along with it. It's an embarrassing slippery slope. Because of my frayed nerves my writing gets botched, and there are times I can get out little more than pictures of Molly or the many ways in which our rent check would be better spent at our local Target. (You know, the really good, quality stuff.)
A little while ago I decided to stop obsessively watching my stats on a daily basis, and I only checked in to be entertained by the Google searches that brought people to my site. (Favorite still: "Where's the party at bitches?") Not monitoring my traffic was an incredibly smart decision for me, and I do think it helped my writing. For me, things seem to go better when I encourage myself to be motivated by passion and not feedback. And let's be really honest here: the number of people who view your site is not always directly related to how good of a writer you are.
At BlogHer this past weekend, as I was sitting in the Maggie Mason-led panel, "Pursuing Your Passion," I realized that I do want a lot more from this site, though, and I don't mean more traffic. I want this to be a place where I can be truly proud of the content. I want this to be a place where my skills are improved and where I can make true connections with other people who understand being passionate about writing in an open forum. I want my own thoughts to dictate what I post and not what I think will receive the most comments. (And I do look to Maggie as one inspiration in that regard. You can tell she runs her site differently than some and in the brief time I spent in her presence it's obvious that's because she's an incredibly grounded and together person.)
Over the weekend I met Elizabeth for lunch and afterwards we—along with two of my BlogHer roommates—stopped in H&M before hanging out in our hotel room for a while. When she left, I was sad, which is a feeling I wasn't expecting. I'm the kind of person who usually needs some time to digest things. I need a little space before I can process overwhelming experiences. But there was such an affinity between her and I, and it felt really unfair that she had to go her way—to another city in California—and I had to go mine—to THE HOTTEST PLACE ON EARTH, OH MY GOD WILL THERE EVER BE A BREEZE IN TEXAS AGAIN? She sent me a link today to a slew of purple shoes at Piperlime (as did Cherie), and it reminded me, again, that I met this woman through this site. Without it I wouldn't know her.
But, to me, there is more involved than just meeting really cool people. It's about the love of the written word, and the well-written word at that. If I'm going to pad my Google Reader with a bunch of blogs that will take my attention away from pregnancy napping (which, if it were an Olympic sport, I could totally place in, let me tell you) I want them to offer me something. I want to take something from the posts I read—inspiration, perspective, an unmatched sense of humor, originality, a damn good story. I want to read things that force me to use up my printer ink by printing them out and re-reading them while I eat my morning cereal. I don't comment on sites so the blog authors will comment back. I comment because I was moved to say something. I read because the sites are, for lack of a better word, good. And, let me be really—kind of crazily—honest: I only want you to comment or read or visit my site because you feel the same way. (Unless you're my mother. You have to keep reading. DON'T THINK I WON'T QUIZ YOU.) Our time is so precious and as stunningly cool as this community is, we do have lives and jobs and husbands who sort of like to look at our faces without the glow of a laptop illuminating them. We have off-line friends who are still pretty spectacular even though they don't know what Twitter is. We have new cupcake bakeries to seek out (Tart Bakery in Dallas on Lovers Lane) and fall shows to obsess over and did I mention the naps? If we're going to carve out (our really valuable) time to be on the Internet, we want the company we keep and the topics we discuss to make us better people and better writers, don't we?
The one thing that has shocked me most since returning from BlogHer is the vitriol that has popped up all over the Internet from certain (usually anonymous) bloggers about other bloggers. They are talking about what particular bloggers were wearing and what their noses looked like (I'm self-aware, so, hi, mine is big) and how this blogger snubbed this other one and how THIS BIG BLOGGER was totally unapproachable and curt and she's not even a good writer and SERIOUSLY? That's what you want to spend your (could-be-napping) time doing? You want to fixate and whine and create this ridiculous bubble of WOE IS ME? So you didn't like so-and-so. You thought she was better online. You thought she'd be nicer to you than she was. That's fine; that's even normal. Go ahead and delete them from your bookmark list or your feed reader and remember that there are a million other talented, funny women out there you can fill up your time reading. If you choose to focus on the ones who weren't nice or the ones you didn't like, that sort of makes you look bad, not them. (And I'd be shocked if your family isn't highly annoyed that metaphorically glaring at people from afar is how you choose to spend your time online and away from them.)
Anyway, this is all getting incredibly introspective and deep and it's also jumping all over the place, and I really didn't mean for that to happen. The point I have been messily trying to make from the beginning is this: I want to get better at what I do and I want to focus on why I do it. If you care to hang around with me while I go about all that, well, wow, I'll appreciate it like you wouldn't believe. Really.
Heather Armstrong talked—in her BlogHer Saturday night keynote—about writing the perfect post. She talked about having an idea, seeing the words clearly, writing out those words and then realizing the end result was exactly what she had hoped it would be. She said that feeling is one of the best feelings in the world and when she can't find that feeling any longer, it will be time to walk away. (This is paraphrasing a bit from my fuzzy, chocolate-coated memory. BlogHer powers-that-be: HAVE MORE SNICKERS NEXT YEAR. TWO IN ONE SITTING IS NOT ENOUGH.) Even though we can't all bring in enough ad money to support our families (although Mike is constantly wondering WHY THE HELL NOT) we can understand what that feeling—or even just striving for that feeling—is like.
It's beautiful, and it's worth it.