I have no shortage of ideas for blog posts these days. Most of them are pretty good ideas. And most of them I will never do anything with. Tonight, for example, while I was upstairs trying to get our three-year old to go potty before bed, my wife hollered from downstairs, “Don’t let her stick her finger up her ass.”
Right there I’ve got at least a half-dozen starting points for a blog. For example, my wife actually said put and bottom. Why did I just say stick and ass?
Why am I the one upstairs with my daughter trying to get her to go potty while my wife is downstairs uncorking the wine?
Why did I write uncorking the wine when my wife was not doing that at all, but just trying to get the dishes done before the girls went to bed so that the sound of dishes clacking in the sink didn’t disturb them as they nodded off?
Why is my gorgeous daughter (and she is really gorgeous, not just in my opinion but in scientifically verifiable fact) sticking her finger up her ass? How many grown up, gorgeous women stuck their finger up their ass as children? How might knowledge of this phenomenon somehow help shy men who are uncomfortable around gorgeous women be less uncomfortable? Why, when I tell my daughter that in polite society we do not stick our finger up our ass to make our poop come out, does my daughter shout at me until her vocal cords rip apart just to tell me that that’s the only way her poop can come out?
If I were really wanting to get blog posts out of this, I would have a field day.
But this stuff happens every day, and I don’t go anywhere near it.
I don’t like to write about my personal life. In fact, I usually can’t stand writing about it. At the end of the day, which is the only time I have for writing these days, my personal life is the last thing I want to write about. I write about stupid things, made up things, anythings, to get away from my personal life. Not that I don’t like my personal life. But at the end of the day, I want a break from it.
I’m not interested in recounting my own adventures. Maybe because I’ve already lived them. Or wish I hadn’t. Or am frustrated by them. But even when I love every minute of them, I’m not usually interested in writing about them.
I am interested in observation and reflection. And that may lead me to something I want to write about it. I may approach it as a story with some truthiness to it, and it may or may not be based on something that actually happened, but it probably won’t recount what really happened. I may write about something I observe, or feel, or am obsessed with, but it won’t likely be something that I participated in. Because as soon as I write about something I participated in, I’m writing about my personal life, which I don’t like to do.
I think I just don’t like writing about myself. Unless I can write about me writing about myself, or how I write about myself, if and when I do. Which I guess is what I’m doing now.