For various reasons, I was thumbing through my writings from summer 2012 when I was struck by how prolific my writing was. I wrote every day, viciously, non stop, overflowing. It was hard for me to find exactly what I was looking for amidst all those rambling, prosaic posts, but I found it, and along with that I found a strange sense of myself as a writer and the evolution of art.
When I was younger, people used to say a lot of things to me. One of those was, “Never stop writing.” While I appreciate that sentiment, now that I find myself in a position where my writing productivity has definitely slowed down, I feel a bit of resentment towards the people who told me to never stop writing. First off, it’s fucking hard. Publishing two posts a day is an unsustainable, break neck pace at which to run one’s own blog for no fucking money. And – guess what – it turns out I like money because even though capitalism is a failing system, I still don’t want to suffer needlessly.
Now, years later, my response to the people who told me, “Never stop writing” is, “Where’s my fucking money?”
One of the reasons that I post less frequently and less frequently on this blog is because I have a full time job now – and for the first time since I started publishing this blog. When I was younger, it made sense to invest myself into open ended creative pursuits with no real pay off, such as this blog. Now, however, I’ve reached a point in my life where some of those pursuits are starting to pay off, and in the spirit of living in this capitalist society I am investing myself more and more into said pursuits.
This blog, while one of my most cherished creative pursuits, is not one that paid off. I could muse endlessly about why this didn’t pay off but other ones did, but that is neither here nor there. Let’s stay rooted in reality for now.
Another thing that people used to tell me out this blog was, “You should write about something other than sex.”
I always bristled at that comment. That comment always sought to undermine the value of sexuality in a young woman’s life, and I always found that behind that comment lay a wealth of male sexual insecurity. However, I find myself at a point in my life where creating explicitly sexual content has become… lackluster.
There are several reasons for this. My great period of sexual exploration is over. Let’s be honest, there’s not that much new stuff out there for me to do sexually that doesn’t involve serious criminal activity and also I find that men are still so homophobic. (Okay, I’ll spill it, my last great sexual fantasy is to have two secret boyfriends, have them find out about each other, and then seek their revenge by making me watch them fuck. SO HOT.)
Plus, it has finally happened – new dick just isn’t that appealing anymore. Through years of my own social research, I have found that new dick has a 67-82% chance of being unsatisfactory and not worth the call back. I’m not interested in wasting my time anymore.
I’ve been running this blog for five and a half years now. While it has, at times, been juicy, sadistic, depressing and inane, I’m pretty sure that listening to the same person write about the same thing over and over again is pretty fucking boring. In order to give this blog some depth beyond its initial thesis of “20 something fucks all of Oakland,” I have to evolve. It’s not that I’m letting them win, it’s more that I’m allowing myself to grow as an artist. I’m sick of rehasing the same themes over and over again.
So, excuses aside, I will admit: I am sad that this blog is no longer a central focus of my life. A year ago, it came down for a few months, and then it went back up, and now it’s petering out of existence. Meh. That’s fine. Yes, I’ll admit that I miss the wildness of who I used to be, but, my god, it was fucking exhausting and I’m 30 now. There’s no way that was going to carry on past 30. I don’t want to feel like I’ve lost the spirit of life that fueled the fuckery behind this blog – I often wonder where that spirit went in recent months, or how it has changed. If it has gotten better or just damp. Mostly I just wonder why I write less, and why I have allowed myself to live a life that isn’t conducive to my first love, writing.
Time is a fickle beast. Who can say what will come of all this.