I was made for the internet

This morning I did a timed writing exercise — writing about my first car — and when I finished, it occurred to me that the results would actually have made a pretty good blog entry.

And then it occurred to me that I’ve been waiting all my life for blogging to show up.

Last night in the van I was asked about my journaling, and I said I’ve been writing them since I was 9 years old, which is 22 years now. Whew. (Okay, it’s not like I’m an old lady, but that still feels like a really long time.) I’ve done more of this sort of writing — thinking aloud, freewriting, doodling with words — than any other kind of writing. Ever. Full stop. I started with poetry, because of school, before the journal, but I have nowhere near the volume. And fiction has always been a start-and-stop endeavor, even in the best of times.

But the journal is always there. In fact, I know that a depression is particularly bad when I can’t even write in my journal.

And somehow it’s always like I’m writing *to* somebody in my journal, even if it’s just some other segment of my own head, or the future. Which is why I loved Anais Nin’s diaries when I was in college.

*And* I kept an electronic journal, years ago, although it got stolen when that house was robbed. 🙁

So weblogging shows up, and it just meshes perfectly. Sort of like this whole web thing in general, for me. I honestly don’t know what the hell I’d be doing with my life if it weren’t for the internets.