At Home in My Blog

Sometimes I worry my little blog doesn’t get enough of my attention. Not that I’m feeding it less, just that it’s taking up less space in my brain. That is, until moments like this week, when I wrote something for the Globe and Mail, and hundreds of people came to visit.

It’s like I’m having a party at my blog and I’m unprepared. That’s when I panic. I think of my mom who gets stressed when a few people are coming over. Is the place clean? Should I put the extra leaf in the table? Do I have enough food? Too spicy? Not spicy enough? Thank goodness I’m not doing a sit-down blog dinner, just a drop in.

Aside from missing one when I was on the sardine retreat, I still post weekly. I’m aware that in blog-land, saying you post once a week is like bragging that you brush your teeth every few days, or go for bi-monthly jogs. But that was my commitment to myself. No less, rarely more.

When I do consider skipping a week, I tell myself no one’s waiting, this isn’t insulin. How many people have actually said to themselves “What a crap week it’s been, Aviva hasn’t posted yet” or “I refuse to get out of bed until Aviva posts”. I’ll never know for sure unless I commission a poll, and at the moment that’s not a priority (how much does a poll cost?).

So since I don’t need my Dad and a megaphone, or a burly bureaucracy to calibrate the pressure, who reset my internal dial? Why do I now roll like I’m being chased? Am I a different person than I was eighteen months ago, ten years ago? When did drive get added to stress and guilt in the motivator section of my grocery store?

I read somewhere that there are two kinds of people – people who want to be writers and people who want to write. I used to be the former (it was simple - dreams of Giller finalist dresses, and conversations with Eleanor Watchtel and Shelagh Rogers - yet disappointing and fruitless) now I think I’m the latter or at the very least I’m the former who’s now willing to do the latter to be the former.

While I don’t believe they hold true, I’m a big fan of the there are two kinds of people ways of defining the world. This week Slate posted a two kinds of people piece. Chaos muppet (Cookie monster and Gonzo) or order muppet (Bert and Kermit).  Which one are you?

Why do we find categories so comforting? Love coriander or hate it, cat person or dog person, cyclist or motorists, person who can wear things between your toes or person who can’t, person who believes people can change, person who believe they can’t.

I’m a coriander-loving, chaos muppet who likes dogs (even though I don’t want one), can’t wear flip flops, and believes I can change, but not into an order muppet.

What’s the point of all this you might be wondering? The point is this is my blog - the only place I am welcome to do exactly what I want no matter who’s dropping by.

This was my favourite: there are two kinds of people in the world, those who think there are two kinds of people and those who don’t.





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