Something I highly approve of is the fact that I can write a blog post in the comfiest clothes known to man, but no one has to know. I mean, you’ve probably all guessed from the way I go on about winter clothes, but my point remains: you see my words not my soft jumpers. I get cold really easily and I’m always complaining about it because it’s true (I may complain but at least I aint a liar) but no one in my family ever really agrees with me about the temperature but it is cold and I like comfy clothes that keep me warm. I like writing in comfy clothes that keep me warm because I’m more focused that way.
Cool story, Sarah. But let’s move on, shall we campers.
Blogging is such a weird thing because on one hand you’ve got all of these serious bloggers who write posts two months in advance and schedule all their posts so they’ll get optimum visibility; it’s more of a business.
On the other hand, you’ve got people that just want a place to write down some thoughts that people can read if they want to but hey, no pressure. The first thought isn’t what will get me visitors, but simply what do I feel like writing about.
I’m not saying one is better than the other; both exist because people like writing and that writing takes people to different places, whether that be someone who makes money with their blog or someone who just wants a place for their thoughts. The world of blogging just intrigues me because in some ways there are so many different things out there because everyone is different and thoughts are different and experiences are different which means every post is different. But in another sense, so much is the same; the same advice over and over just written in a different font.
I went to the library yesterday and it was so lovely. I had no plans, so I was able to browse for as long as I wanted, and with no expectations I was pleasantly surprised to leave with twelve books that I’ve never read before. Ah, the following days will be filled with reading until one in the morning. Life is good when this happens.
My days are filled with reading and writing and I can’t complain. Well, I can complain about the cold but not about the reading and writing part. I browse blogs and bookshops and read until I can’t read any more so I start writing and hope I don’t plagiarise the book I just stopped reading. I get so inspired I can’t write a word because nothing sounds as good as it does when a famous author says it so I read some more and hope to see my book in a library one day.
My days are the same but the words are different. What more could I ask for, other than a warmer blanket and a cup of tea?