I Hate My Blog. And You Do Too.

Luckily no one will deny it because according to my website stats, no one reads it.

Actually, that’s kind of ok. Because I’m sick of trying to take old memories and recollect them into something entertaining.

I also think there is confusion with my infatuation about my time in D.C.

When I pitched “Intern” (then changed to “Waking Up in The Potomac; An Intern Out of Her Depth”) to literary agencies, the agent of a humorist icon declined representation but wrote, “You have a good sense of humor, but I see your reminiscences of almost 20 years ago as a blog, not a book.”

Another agent said that unless I was a celebrity, no one would care about some stuff that happened to me in 1998.

A proofreader told me I came across as an anti-feminist snob.

So, at best, I’m a blog. At worst, I’m a bitch. I guess I’ll take the medium where I’m irrelevant.

Which brings me to my thinking today – Not every story needs to be told.

Even I’m bored with what I’m writing.

So why am I? Why did I want to write these stories down? Why am I unable to write anything else until I dice my 60,000-page book into neat little digestible blog nibblettes?

One of my favorite plays is “Six Degrees of Separation,” where the matriarch angrily asks how to hold on to experience without turning it into an “anecdote, with no teeth, and a punchline you’ll tell for years to come?”

I suppose I thought I was keeping it an experience by celebrating my memories of being an intern.

They are bright, positive and reminiscent of a time of hope and excitement for the future. They were some of the first during my transition to true adulthood.

Unfortunately, they were also the last memories before my world pivoted and crashed down.  The “Before” memories.

During tragedy and heartache, remembering the past helps block trauma of the now. Maybe it’s the mind’s way of creating escapism and forcing you to look back to move forward.

That’s why these memories are clear and dear; they played as a constant slideshow during my most difficult times.

Certainly, they don’t cast me in a positive light. Heaven forbid I’m no longer a lady because I enjoyed having fun when I was twenty. After reading the first draft, my father advised me not to share every intimate moment.

“Leave a little mystery.”

I don’t think he understood that sharing every intimate moment was the point of the book. I want to reminisce. I want to re-live it. I want to remember that this was real and it happened.

And it was an experience.

I’ll keep putting out these stories just for me. And then I’ll be free to write for everyone else.

Moving on…

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