Blog fail.

Published on Jul 4
by jackie

I've tried to start this blog three times. This is the fourth.

I think the problem is that by identifying and writing about ideas that i think are both big and (by their nature) good, I reveal a lot about myself. What if I write about something that seems great and it turns out to be a scam? And what if people read it? Or worse act on my endorsement? My stupid ideas blog could ruin lives. 

It only took six minutes to write that first paragraph but it took one hour and 20 minutes to force myself to stop rewriting it. Hmmm.

Today I pulled out this old scrapbook from the top of the closet. I wanted to show Noah some of my clippings from the "Kids' Passport to the Arts" monthly newspaper insert I wrote for when I was 11. It was sort of like Parade Magazine inside the New York Times except that it was four smudgy pages of exclusive interviews with the lead actors in the musical at La Colina Junior High School, or casting call announcements for Youth Symphony. The kind of publication you'd find in a community where good people did good things for children.  I was honored to be a part of it and felt proud of the achievement of being selected to write for KPTTA. But I didn't know anything back then. I was a way, way bigger idiot back in 5th grade than I am even now. --OMG i just heard the loudest boom outside. I swear i felt it go through me. What if we're being bombed? I still have Internet so it didn't cut the phone lines. Jesus what is wrong with me. But also, it's the TENTH of July so lets just put the fireworks away already.--  Back then I thought that being "selected" meant being "chosen", and being "chosen" meant being "somehow better than", but to me the true appeal was that being included meant being less alone. I didn't realize that any student who applied could participate. Being chosen did not mean being better; it meant nothing at all. And on the first Friday of every month, when my mom drove me to the newsstand to snatch 2 or 3 copies of the paper before school, I thought we were beating the rush. I'd sip my celebratory smoothie and wonder if strangers would be impressed to know they were in the same juice bar as an 11-year-old prodigy journalist. Oh to know then...

I got fooled, I fooled myself, and it still feels important. I never believed in Santa, but if I had and I had written him detailed letters only to find they would never be read... it would have crushed me. All that for nothing? Then why? Well, I guess it means that I only wanted to do things that mattered. And furthermore, if you have a chance to write a letter to god's drunk, present-giving brother, I really really hope you take the opportunity seriously and write a damn good letter because this MATTERS. Oh wait just kidding, I hope you spell-checked the bedazzled Santa letter you poured your heart into because there is no Santa (and or god) and you exposed the truth to the world: you are a gullible idiot. haaaaHA!

It's this kind of thinking that kept me from blogging before; because what if something I love, something that has the potential to be really spectacular and fix things and change the world or whatever it is... what if that thing is actually the Worst? Disappointment and public/published humiliation? What if you're one of those American Idol rejects from the auditions? You are William Hung. No? Well how could you know? The real William Hung didn't know he was William Hung. His mom told him he could sing. His roommates said he was funny and handsome. He's tonedeaf... he doesn't know what he sounds like. How do you know you're not him? You don't, you just hope you aren't.

In this way, writing this blog scares me. I'm not ready to fail. I don't want to be wrong.  I don't want to be William Hung. The threat has stopped me every time. But today I looked at my clippings and I remembered how I felt about writing and being a part of something and I realized: I would give anything to feel like that again. So I will change. I will pretend that YOU are the hordes rushing to the newsstand on the first Friday of the month, racing through the pages to read my interview with the lady who taught me how to (not) play double bass. I will pretend that you like me - and better still - love me. You may not love every individual element, but you believe in me.