I have a confession. I’ve had another blog. Since June. Not that it’s been completely hidden—it’s been in my Bloglist (Mr. Schwump Has His Say), but it’d be easy to pass over. Just like Mr. Schwump himself.
Not that I’ve posted on it much—only two posts since Benjamin broke his back—but I guess I just lost my spark for a while. I’m still looking for that spark, but I’m happy to at least see the occasional small flicker.
(The good news is that, thanks be to God, Benjamin is feeling better. Thank you very much for your thoughts and prayers.)
Perhaps you’re asking, “Who’s this ‘Mr. Schwump’??” Well, I explain that in my first post on the other blog, if you’re curious. (If you’re a big fan like I am of The Andy Griffith Show, you might remember the humble Mr. Schwump.) It’s worth clicking through, though, just to see the really cute possum we caught! And the surly groundhog! Not to mention the snakes…umm…entwined.
Maybe you’re wondering, too, “Why another blog?” Well, I’m glad you asked. I explain that, too, in the first post on Mister Schwump, but to make a long story short, here goes:
I can be awfully neurotic at times, especially when it comes to writing. It got so that on Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl, I’d write a post, only to go into a sort of crazed obsessive/compulsive edit mode. I couldn’t stop finding fault with what I’d written. But despite the fact I’d edit ’til the cows came home, I’d still not feel satisfied with what I’d written and would suffer terrible anxiety every time I published a post. Stomach-churning, heart-pounding, hands-atremble anxiety. That’s not the reason I quit the blog, but it was a factor.
But I found I missed writing. So I started another blog. I’m sorry not to have mentioned it. I wanted to tell you—it felt strange not to—but I was afraid you’d naturally compare it to this one and find it lacking. My alter ego Mr. Schwump doesn’t worry so much about “perfect” writing…and he doesn’t ramble on and on like I do.🙂 He trusts that his story deserves to be told, whether anyone out there cares to read it or not. Even if the writing is only average. As it turned out, my most faithful readers were my sweet children, who know and love Mr. Schwump (or, at least, the Mr. Schwump in me). And they were my only commenters (under…ahem…assumed names. Apparently, they have alter egos, too–ha,ha).
I did say “long story, short” so I guess I’d better get to the point: I want to feel, like Mr. Schwump, that my story deserves to be told. And I want to be able to write without that Nasty Critic in my head telling me that it has to be perfect to be worthwhile. (Not to say that my posts were ever perfect—far from it—but I always felt like I had to try to make them so.) So as of today, my alter ego, Mr. Schwump, will be ending his blog and will begin to write on Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl. He’s going to teach me how to write freely and with joy again. How to write without giving the Nasty Critic so much credence. And in the spirit of writing freely, I’ll be writing even more honest and true than I have in the past. Words flowing straight from my mind and heart to my key-tapping fingers. No, the posts might not be as polished as my old ones (again, NOT saying that my posts were all that polished, but that I couldn’t stop trying to polish them). You may even choose not to read them, though they will be shorter (I’m trying to learn to be more succinct, too) than my previous posts so will require less of a time commitment.
I’m hopeful that somehow in the process, I can come to believe, like Mr. Schwump, that my story is worth telling. And that my life, however dull or ordinary it might be, is worthwhile. My messy, imperfect, often boring life. So what I’m saying here is that I’m sort of, more or less, reviving Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl.
Besides, y’all never took me seriously anyway when I said I was quitting, did you?🙂
But my greatest hope, as always, is that even my most ordinary writing about my most ordinary life will resonate with someone. Or give them pleasure. Or make them laugh. And that somehow, somewhere, someone will find truth in it.
Because in the end, I reckon that’s about all that matters.
(Autumn rainbow at my house)