Dearest: New Post
I’m usually pretty good when it comes to writing a letter. It’s an old ritual for me: a piece of paper, a comfortable pen, maybe some coffees or songs by the speaker (if I want to spoil myself). And I’ve missed it a lot lately. I know - why don’t you just send letters then, Clara? Well I did, actually. I’ve written letters for my best friends, some love letters for my husband, introduction letters to some readers… birthday cards, congratulation cards, get-well-soon cards… grieving cards. The last one is often too hard to send out, but it has become more necessary than before; you know, since the pandemic came into our lives. And maybe that is why (among other reasons) I couldn’t just easily feel confident with any new post in this blog since the beginning of 2021. Giving birth to a new blog post has always shared a similar quality (and satisfaction) as sending out a written letter in the mail. So naturally, I often *assume* about what kind of reaction the receiver of such “letter” would be. Would the letter is polite enough and considered thoughtful? What if my writing is just me throwing out complaints and being an ungrateful brat for feeling negative despite having my obvious privileges around, right? What if people want me to write a good, reflective, positive, in-depth learning about a certain phenomenon or a certain, I don’t know, life lesson? Wisdom? Pieces of Advice?
(That's definitely a very self-centered way to measure such harmless activity.)
I love my blog. I love blogging; I love its whole activity and I love the community that surrounds it. And certainly, I am making the activity of blogging more difficult year by year. Because I want my new update to be perfect, for my words to be unique and poetic and my topic to be somewhat encouraging. So I would write this new topic for some hours and then spend some endless days after just to edit, edit, edit. For many little details. I don’t like the flow, I wasn’t quite sure about the way I end it, I suspect I gave too many personal biases, et cetera. And I’ve become more and more self-conscious right after my blog’s 11th anniversary last August 4th, 2021… because that’s when I can see *clearly* about how my “new post” still gotten stuck inside my draft folder. For a goddamn 8 months since January, where I decided to start it for the first time.
The thought about neglecting my blog has been haunting. What am I doing? Since when has this activity of sharing turned into a scary step to do? I love writing a blog post and I’ve spent my life never being so far from it. But in this smartphone era, I do choose my social media a lot. They burn me, those socials. Writing my blog seemed like a burden compared to an Instagram story, for sure. I hate it sometimes. My inner “blogger” voice would accuse me of cheating. YOU ARE CHEATING WITH THE EASIER APPS CLARA. SHAME ON YOU.
But oh, how my yesterday’s Instastory sharing has brought me my liberation. Here’s a verdict: nobody expected me to be perfect, apparently (where have I been?). Nobody really thinks of giving me pressure (except myself), and zero question is being thrown regarding why I let my blog stay aloof in the passing eight months (now nine). People are just super kind and supportive and chill. It IS the privilege that I should be thankful for. And I decided to show my gratitude by writing… this post.
The husband and me, in one of my favourite photo of us back in 2018.
I talked to my husband about how my new blog post has stuck, and, after listening so patiently (I went lengthy), his first reaction was: "Isn't blogging used to be a little update about regular daily lives? It's not like a magazine… or a media outlet."
And the thought hit me. I do consider my blog as some sort of a media platform of my own. Something that can cure my guilt of being "failed" in publishing my magazine (long story from 2014) and being hesitant to finish my pending first book's final draft (another long story… this one from 2018). I do think about my blog as that one special thing I have left to guide with all my heart because my magazine plan sort of went over the roof, and the late plan of publishing a book has to take a longer time to do. Both happened because I decided so, but maybe I wasn't completely ready to move on. I mean. I keep them as my dreams; still, you know? And it does hurt when I revisit my book draft and try to add some paragraphs until my hours are done, knowing: this journey will be a looong way to go. My first book has changed its core many times - because I, too, have evolved for quite a several times over the past couple of years. And the thought of not ever going to finish the book is apparently as haunting as the thought of not producing great content in my blog. Even in my other social media, I, too, hardly allow myself to give rise to mediocrity.
But the more I see, the more mediocre some parts of my life are, and the more liberating views they bring. I might have realised upon writing this post that part of me is so passionate about what I create while the other part is being very arrogant about it because I'm afraid. Of not being a hundred per cent sure that I started something special. I've written more than a hundred reminders about "stop trying to be perfect", and yet I still want it—perfection. I want perfection.
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I love having my room looking aesthetically-pleasing. It’s perfect for me. But real life isn’t just a single photo, right?
So I guess here is a little letter I sent out today to tell everyone that I finally understand why I always like Phoebe the most (if you’re not familiar with Phoebe Buffay, I really cannot help you 😢). Because I secretly wish I could be her. The Phoebe "always carefree, happy-go-lucky, innocently bold and unapologetically herself" fkin Buffay. She's my dream girl. I always, always aspire to be more like her. And after all these years, even though I was never against the online-quiz result or my friend’s opinion about how Rachel Green I am, deep down inside, I know that I am more of a Monica. Not precisely the super-clean-lady Monica, but more of the "always-controlling-and-chasing-perfection" kind of Monica. And I spent my screen time half-hating Monica’s MANY decisions because those are what reminds me the most about myself. I hate seeing her manipulative and childlike choices, then I would follow up the feeling by having countless powerful inner-discussion moments regarding how things would be "better" if she decided to go my way.
(Yes, I am subconsciously trying to control the control-freak herself. How problematic could that be?!)
I talked to my husband about how my new blog post has stuck and, after listening so patiently (I went lengthy), his first reaction was: “Isn’t blogging used to be a little update about regular daily lives?”
While I prepare myself to be more… accepting, I want to dedicate this post (that I've written in three hours, four maybe) to everyone who reached out to me in my DM yesterday. Thank you for simply saying "take your time" and "I still read your blog!" because that brought me so much warmth and clarity regarding my own confusion. I have a fear of detachment, I guess, and it's becoming more apparent that I have to casually check on therapy to discuss if I indeed share some imposter syndrome qualities throughout the past years. Writing this feels liberating. The chunk of worries that stuffed my throat has now gone. If you read this, please be assured: this blog will never go away. It's been a massive part of my life, and it will always be here when I learn to grow, still. The younger me will be pleased to read this post because this is just a genuine daily update that I used to do with my old blog in the beginning. Writing this post feels familiar and this, this IS something I can always do.
The time is almost 6 PM now and our helper is about to go home. My *mother and wife* hours is coming. We’ll be having dinner and then play together. I wonder what I’m going to write about next time, and when I’d be able to do it?
Oh. I’m so glad I don’t have to worry about the answer right now. Let’s eat dinner first! ♡