Hi, my name is Miya. This is my blog. This has been my blog for the last two years. If you read back through this blog, you’ll reach January of 2009; I started the blog to write my way through what I felt was missing, inadequate and unusual about me. To try and explain, passive-aggressively of course, what my “problems” were (small – very small actually, in retrospect). And yet, it has helped.
Let me tell you a bit about myself. I am 23 years old, going on 24 in just a few short weeks. In 2011, I am going to turn 25 years old. To borrow a phrase from a friend, “25 is the oldest you can be in your youth before you’re old and the youngest you can be in old age.” I’m scared of it. I don’t want to get old. Maybe that makes me petty, but it’s just the truth.
I love music. I have an odd obsession with pop music history and I collect records. Sometimes I self-diagnose myself as a bit of a hoarder and I worry about my own chronic disorganization. I watch Hoarders on A & E and see these people who started off a little messy and gradually turned into extreme hoarders who have given up on life. I don’t want that to be me. And yet, I see myself in the future, sitting at home by myself with my computer, like I am now, with a cat (not unlike the one I live with now), writing. I can’t write in messy places. If I ever DID end up being a hoarder, I would probably stop writing too. And that would really be the end of me.
Aside from music, I love to write. I love to write. I can’t describe it in my own words. Sometimes I think other people could describe my love of writing better than myself. Of one of his female protagonists, Brian Morton once wrote,
"It wasn’t writing she worshiped; writing rather, was a way of worshiping. It was the best way she ever found to express her fascination with life, her quarrels with life, her questions. She sometimes thought that even if what she wrote every day was doomed to disappear during the night, she would keep writing stories, just to make a daily pilgrimage to the realm of mystery and reverence and play. She didn’t always reach that realm when she was writing stories, but merely to turn toward it was a kind of nourishment unlike any other."
And that’s exactly it; Morton is representative of me sometimes, and I think that’s why I like him. His books are innately a part of my life now; my trials, worries, and passions all input into a backdrop of New York City. I fall for his passages and this is by far the most meaningful to me.
I tend to write the same things in my blog over and over ; anonymously-addressed letters to those who have wronged me; bullying and growing up; finding jobs; books and authors I cherish; reviews of concerts and albums; all of these things tend to be recurring themes in this kind of less-intimate version of my paper journals.
And it’s funny to be personal but not really be personal. It feels kind of fake, or half-finished – like, there are pourings-out of things you simply just need to say, but you have to skirt those issues in case the wrong person stumbles upon your url. And the realm of the personal can be dangerous, even if names have been changed to protect your identity and those you associate with. Or even if you have nothing but glowing things to say about people whose names should be yelled from mountaintops because they mean THAT much to you.
And that’s why this blog has become boring; it has become a halfway house of critique, review, personal essays and fragments of passive-aggressive thought. Because publicity wears blinders and definitely wears a mask and that kind of mask disallows a flow of feeling.
And while I could stop all this, I could just give up on the project and start fresh, or come up with some sort of Julie & Julia-themed masterpiece of consistency and theme, I won’t. Because I stated once that I’d love to have a published blog. I’d love to get a million hits per day and have comments from people all over the world who hang on my every meandering sentence, longing to get to know me and get to know the language I use…. I’m happy with this. This is my world. It’s contained within these hundreds of posts and it’s contained within these thousands of words, and it is a part of me. Every word I’ve ever written, even failed, even boring, even pointless as this definitely is, is not meaningless, is not wasteful, is only a step on the never-ending, ever-curving staircase that I’m always walking up, shallow stair by shallow stair, of someday being among my idols, who have books on the shelf and give lectures that people pay to attend, and who teach at universities and colleges and are a part of writer-in-residence programs. I write, not for *them* – I write for me.
And never giving up on this blog, or the ideas of blogging, allows me to be a step ahead of those who are always making attempts to better themselves through “blogging” by writing crumby little fragments of nothing and then just let the project slide like jelly through fingers. Those people and their half-wit “dreams” that they lazily sit on and eat off of and pass out on after pointless drunk nights, aren’t me.
This is who I am and who I was born to be and once I discovered that once again, once the words called me out again, I realized that my romances lie not with useless people, but with me. My romances are my own creation, from the scope of my own imagination. And when I inject them into someone else, that’s my perception; not their reality.