It’s self-indulgent to write about yourself. That’s fairly obvious, but what else am I supposed to write about? I don’t know a lot about other things and there’s Wikipedia to compete with so why bother? For years I’ve told myself “no one wants to read about you” and “no one cares what you have to say.” And those may both be true, but who cares? Maybe someone does. Maybe no one does. But what matters, right now, to me, is that I want to write it. I want to write about me and I want to write about what I have to say, and that’s enough for me, for now, because I’m enough. (You’ll find themes and remarks that indicate I may be reading a couple self-help books and working on positive self-speak. Mostly I’ve just been reading inspirational instagram posts, one day I’ll read an entire book of them, or just buy a calendar of encouraging phrases and quotes super-imposed on images of places in nature I would never go to.)
People can say what they want about me (who does she think she is? [I still don’t know]) and about my writing (it’s not very good [I know]), and that’s all fine and good. I’m not a professional human or a professional writer. I’m going to write about myself because that’s about all I know, or at least what I arguably know the most about. I don’t even know myself that well but we’re working on getting to know each other better. Once I run out of things to write about I’ll consider delving into topics unrelated to myself, but I will probably find a way to relate them all back to myself, I am my mother’s daughter after all. Maybe I’ll write about her next.