Blogging, I love you, but you’re bringing me down.

I think about you all the time. I scribble ideas for posts on parking tickets (I have lots of those). I think of snappy titles and ongoing themes. I see something peculiar or adorable during my day and I plan to rush home and tell you all about it. But I don’t. I think I’ll try writing lists instead of posts–lists on jobs I’ve had, songs I’m listening to, books I love. But I don’t.

Part of the problem is I’m not used to this sort of casual short form. I write things that are long and outlined and worried over. I strive to develop ideas, tease out themes, discover the perfect word choice. In theory, I should find blogging to be a welcome relief.

The other problem is I’m cheating on you with my other projects. Much of January was devoted to bringing home “Loop Holes,” which is turning out to be quite the delightful little short film. Editing with the fearless Megan Miller has added tremendous depth to my filmmaking education, and hearing how weird and wonderful the original score the Brothers Cox have made makes me want to puke with happiness. February was about the novel. I found my way through a second draft and started sharing excerpts with my writing group. This would be nerve wracking, a real nail biter, if they weren’t a talented and witty bunch who give excellent feedback and seem to genuinely like the story.

The final problem is this weird way of talking about myself and my projects in a way that seems off-hand and not as shamelessly self-promoting as it really is. And who’s even reading this thing? And how can I finally move past worrying about what other people think? And why is it so hard to find parking in Koreatown? And does my new gig as a fitting model mean selling out? And how can the one true thing in my life continue to be a fluffy ball of mischief known as Chairman Meow?

And how did I just write an entire blog post about not writing blog posts?

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