I think that, over my lifetime, I've probably started something like twenty blogs. Yes, I know that sounds insane, but it's true. I've deleted some of them...abandoned most. And a few were even vaguely successful. But I always seem to lose interest at some point. Maybe because that "thing" I started my blog about was no longer shiny and new. I'm not really sure. But even though my tastes continue to evolve, one thing doesn't. The need to write. To share. To connect.
I'm a writer. It's what I've always done, and something that I consider to be one of my strongest skills. Yet, I seem to keep coming back to
blogging of all things. And all of a sudden, it hit me just now...
I can only write about myself.
God, don't you just hate me? I kind of hate me. Out of all the different kinds of writing I've attempted over the years, I can't help but realize that blogging and poetry are the only two that I actually consider myself to be
good at.
And it's not like I haven't tried. God, how I have
tried to write a book. Even one about myself, thinly veiled as the main character of a not-so-secretly-about-my-life novel. But it just doesn't happen. It won't. I write a sentence, or a paragraph, or a chapter, or even three chapters...and then it just fizzles out. I have way more than twenty of
those, let me tell you.
Who knows? Maybe I'm just not "there" yet. It's not in the cards for me at the moment, that's for sure. And so I just keep sitting here, twiddling my thumbs, aching with wasted creativity.
I guess I could go back and restart my book blog that fell off the face of the earth a year ago. As much as I would like to do that, though, it's just not calling to me anymore. Books still are! But I don't want to spend seven days a week writing about them, sadly.
Let's be real, I know what the problem is. I'm incapable of having hobbies. I try not to make a job out of writing, I really do. But I can't fucking help it. Writing is my passion, and goddammit, isn't a huge part of
life to figure out how to turn your passion into a career? I probably could've picked a less cliché passion, I'll admit, but for goodness' sake, that's really what I truly want.
So, of course when I start a blog, it becomes my life. It takes over until I can't talk, breathe, or sleep without it running through my brain at full speed. And then I burn out. And then I "take a break" (which is really just code for "coming up with an idea for a new-and-so-much-better project"). And then the cycle starts all over again! Predictable. Disappointing. Endless.
What if there was a place...a place I could always come back to? A place where anything and everything is welcome. A place that doesn't judge my fluctuating moods and interests. A place perfectly mine, just for me, yet still a place to share.
So, that's where
Miranda Nahmias comes in.
Whatever. I know that it's premature to be using my soon-to-be married name nine months before the wedding. I'm probably jinxing myself to hell and back with that one. But that's going to be my name pretty soon, so let's not argue over semantics.
Miranda Nahmias will be my bookmark. My nest. My safe space. A place that is always there for me when the mood strikes. Whatever kind of mood that happens to be! Books? Sure! Makeup? Sure! Fashion? Sure! Music? Sure!
Anything.
Until maybe — one day — I finally figure out how to write about something other than myself. But, you know what? I'm okay with being a little narcissistic. Don't worry, I still hate my thighs and my eyes are
way too close together...let's not get crazy.
But, hey. I'm in my 20s. Life is short. And, for the first time in my life, I fucking love myself. So it's time to celebrate, bitches.
