I sat down here today to write an intensely personal post about what it felt like to abandon my apartment after almost four years, which is, by nature, I think, an intensely personal thing to write about. When I moved into this apartment it represented a milestone for me because it was the first place I ever occupied by myself. But it was also the first place where I could confidently call myself a writer. Without running to the toilet and puking.
All of this—and yes, puking, too—is what I wanted to tell you about today. Until I read this article, an intensely personal (and beautifully written) piece about the intensely personal (and often dangerous) world of blogging. Because although I moved out of this apartment this week as a finally-budding writer who had proved herself to be extremely proficient at living on her own for the first time, I suddenly realized I will probably remember my time most here as the period during which I became a blogger.
And it’s funny, the memories I have of this apartment. The most vivid one is what you might call a recurring memory since it happened every single day: Sitting at my desk gnawing chunks out of my hangnails trying to figure out what I could possibly write about to fill my three-plus-posts-a-day quota.
Almost every square-foot of that tiny space has a blogging memory tagged to it; I can read it like a Google Map. I can see myself standing at the kitchen sink the day I plotted a retort to an insanely mean email while steel-wooling a baking sheet to a mirror-like shine. Staring at the bumps in the wall of my bedroom in the middle of the night, fretting over a horrifying assumption I’d typed with glee earlier that day. Freaking out as I soaped up my hair in the shower, convinced that last post I moved to ‘publish’ went too far. (It did.)
During those six short steps from my bed to the computer every morning I would consider the day’s two, and only two, possible scenarios: That oxygen-to-the-brain rush when the right people noticed how freaking awesome I wrote, or the chest-crushing low of getting a post dead stupid wrong. That daily twinge, that familiar nausea, will forever haunt the corners of those four rooms for me.
Now I can appreciate the irony. It was a place where, for once, I lived completely by myself. But at the same time, I willingly tossed myself out into the open, every single day, for everyone to see.