On missing

It’s odd, this. Unwavering yet intermittent. It comes, goes, grips at once like a flu and at another moment, unremarkable. Symptoms are scattered, inconsistent. There are patches of day in which the void is so whole, so pronounced, distinct, yet life happens just as it has, to do task lists tallied and Blockbuster DVDs returned. The gas tank is filled at a familiar spot, staples purchased at stops that provide the most ease. Shared spots? Perhaps. I’ve no idea. Can you imagine? It’s odd, that.

There is much to share in the moment. The woman across the way has lost her twin weight. Do you remember her? Chili pepper is a color that looks good on me. The large is too big on top. Travel is planned and honors have been bestowed. Family members excel and the new year news is indeed positive. A friend may move south and another strikes up a familiar band. Good things, as I say. Does that stir something within? Do you remember?

Do you remember me? The shade has changed but the rest remains the same. The spark I suspect once intrigued is intact. I’m in motion. I’m reading and watching. Writing. I’ve questions about the most ordinary of days, about itineraries and meals, photographs and followers. I answer them for myself and hope I’ve come close. I trust I have. I laugh and plan and hold my own when least expected. Take care not to confuse action with content.

There is anger. Anger tempered by understanding, a frustrating combination. It’s very adult, of course, recognizing when life is more important than you are, for the moment or forever. Adult doesn’t matter much when the child in you wants connection, warm skin, discovery.

The tie is understood, inherent to us being, of course, just as are Tuesdays and the burn of a hot stove. It all is so. Quite simple, really. A promise from both sides exists in word and thought that we’re there if the other should be in need. Only a part of me remains confused. If not now, when could we possibly need the other more?

Name it

Our last conversation got me thinking, not as rare of an occurrence as one might think during these busy days. In fact, your last series of comments had me thinking in the shower, on the drive to work, on the drive home. What exactly DO we call ourselves, those of us who write about us, about life in general? Those of us without a niche?

Maybe we should start with the question, Why do we care? Well, a taxonomy can be useful in many instances. Classification provides us with an easily interpretable way of understanding who someone is, what they do, where they’re coming from (in a very general sense). In the blog world, one of very low attention spans, I’m guessing you have about five seconds to tell a first-time reader who you are. Take a look at Twitter bios; can you describe yourself adequately in the character allotment (or less)? Mine really says nothing about me, but if I decided to change that, it might read:

Kris, 30-something writing about life in DC

That doesn’t tell you a whole lot.

What about:

Kris, DC 30-something writing about cats, wine, and the famous men she keeps under her bed

Better?

Yes, but watch the confused faces you get when you say the latter. In the online world, neither carries the same weight, however, as:

Jane, Mom blogger

Or

Rico, Foodie and Lovemaker Extraordinaire

Or something like that.

BUT WHO CARES, KRIS?

Well, if you take your online writing pretty seriously, you’ll want people to see it. And you’ll want the right people to read and comment on it, people with similar interests and intentions, in the hopes of making your writing, your discussions, and your collective online experience even richer.

You may even want to get paid for it. [GASP!] Try going to a job interview next time without a clear statement about what you do.

“I’m a worker who likes people and cats and cooking and spreadsheets. I’m awesome and my mom loves me.”

Continuing on.

So I’m interested in your thoughts about what we might call ourselves. As a group. As a collection of bloggers who take time (lots of time) to write about . . . us.

BlogHer

I loved what you did with yesterday’s post. Thanks for indulging me, sweet people. I hope you can picture me reading your responses, as I always do, this time with wide eyes like a four year old on Christmas morning. Think Cindy Lou Hoo. With crispy straw hair. I may ask you to play with me in such a way again soon. Please oblige. Or the cats get it.

Word on the street is that I decided to go to BlogHer this year. 2010. I haven’t been in two years, since it was in Chicago the first time (three years?) when we were on a panel about personal blogging, discussing our lives in detail and possibly becoming digital exhibitionists in the process (I’m quite sure that last phrase will get me some decent spam).

I’m so. freaking. excited. Laurie, Kristabella, Stacy and I have put in an application for a Room of Your Own, a session within the regular agenda tracks that is chosen by the people, for the people. Or something like that. We’ve proposed a session on personal blogging without labels for those of us who write without a well-defined niche. Those of us who aren’t mommybloggers or politicos or photographers or foodies, or are, quite possibly, all of the above. We propose to talk about our role in the blogosphere, whether we can establish a thriving sub-community of our own, and what our legacy will be. Not to mention a strategic and standard response to the question, “what do you blog about?”

Laurie recommended we answer, “YOUR MOM.”

Thankfully if chosen we have some time to work on that one.

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