(Finally) Being Okay With Being Ordinary

An ordinary pair of jeans (thankfully not acid wash) Source: wikipedia.org

It was around the time Genevieve and her kindergarten crew were doing their best to exclude me from any schoolyard fun that I started daydreaming about being more than ordinary.

I needed to be somebody.

Not just somebody, but a somebody.

I needed to be famous.

If I were famous - like, say, a K-Tel Minipops kid (a pretty big deal in dinosauric times, kids) - I'd show them. Because you know what? You're not going to call me names if I show up to school in a limo wearing sequence and leg warmers, bitches.

And so, for the next few years, whenever things got a little rough at school, I would escape into my 45s or my tapes (those were types of music media from the olden days) and lip-sync myself into a daydream where I was emotionally untouchable, unmoved by their attempts to cut me down. For just a few minutes, this wounded little girl was Cindi Lauper, Janet Jackson, Rick Astley or Brian Adams.

Later on, that same girl became The Maven.

See, that feeling never entirely went away. And while I didn't start this blog to become a somebody, somewhere along the road I started to believe it would lead me there. I saw other people rising to internet quasi-stardom and I began thinking that was where I had to be too. They all went to conferences and made actually money off their blogs and got pretty big and got flown places and pretty much made other blogs, like mine, look like little anthills in their bloggy Disneyland. I figured I needed to join them.

But why?

Some people do it because it's their job. They've made a genuine career out of it. But that wasn't it for me. It's never been about the money.

The thing about this crazy year and the period of depletion I now find myself in, is that I've had to have a good look at my priorities; not just look at them, but ask myself why they're priorities in the first place.  And this "becoming a well-known blogger" thing? I dissected it over the last few months like a frog in a grade eight science class.  And, just like the insides of that frog, I really didn't like what I saw.

Look, I love to write. It's my passion. It fuels me like Archie fuels his jalopy (that's a name for an old car from the Cretaceous period). When I'm feeling at one with the creative process, the words flow out of me. Writing shit is healing. It helps me stitch up an old wound, or put the fire in my soul into print. Words are a little like oxygen to me, and when I go without sharing them for a while, I feel like that dude in Total Recall with the bulging eyes.

This dude.

But somewhere along the way, my love for writing became intertwined with my desire to escape getting hurt ever again. Being well known felt like it could be a pretty sweet personal shield. The idea that writing could be my ticket to something bigger excited my ego. At which point, my ego started trying to dry-hump my creativity in his acid wash jeans, hoping that would get the juices flowing.

My creativity hates acid washed jeans. And dry humping.

The more I thought about SEO content and blog stats and unique page hits (the mullets of the internet), the less turned on my creativity became. It just sat uncomfortably on the opposite end of the couch, looking really grossed out. And there it sat for a good, long while.

As it turns out, when the ego is making the moves, nobody wants to put out.

Besides, the more I followed the thought through, the more it didn't make sense. Being well-known doesn't protect you from mean people; it just makes you easier to spot. Trolls love big bloggers, and celebrity gossip sites are the unfortunate proof that people love to cut down those who are at the top. And once you've "made it," what then? Do you scramble for ways to stay up there? Do you worry about becoming obsolete or wait to be replaced by the next big name? It's not a utopia, and the grass isn't as green as little kid me used to think. 

Also, I'm way too much of a spaz to have to think of all that stuff and what to make for dinner. Do I look like Wonder Woman? 

Finding out my kid is transgender was a game changer in many ways. And it was nearly the end of this blog. We found ourselves in an interesting situation because I had been writing about our family online for years. What now? I realized I would either have to shut down the blog completely so she could transition quietly, or we would need to come out on it; there was no in-between.

I know I'm a biased mom, but believe me when I say Gutsy is wise beyond her years. She's quite familiar with social media and the consequences many trans people face when coming out. We discussed the pros and cons, and ultimately she decided it was in her best interest - and ours as a family - if we were transparent (get it? get it?) about the whole thing. And so that's what we did.

But it was the moment I realized I would shut down my blog - my pride and joy, my years of chronicled experiences, without hesitation - that I realized wounded little Amanda wasn't in charge anymore. She didn't need to hide behind anything. My ego had gone home, and creativity had made some room for love on that couch.

Love isn't flashy and doesn't wear acid wash jeans (thank goodness.) She has an understated beauty about her. She doesn't care who you are or what you look like or how quickly you come up in a Google search. She's a great companion to creativity because she's not pushy. She's not trying to hide or run from anything. She's doesn't care if you're a somebody. You're her somebody.  You don't have to be extraordinary; you just have to be.

And so I find myself, once again, valuing the love of writing above all else.

Last week, I wrote my first post in years that didn't get a single comment. Not one. And you know what? It didn't wreck me. Not even a little bit. Sure, Ego came knocking at the door, a sock stuffed in his groin and looking for some action. I turned him away because the couch was full.

It didn't bother me that the post wasn't a big read. It didn't bother me. It's not about that. It's not about getting read or getting discovered or "going somewhere" or signing a deal or becoming the next big thing. That's someone else's definition of success, and there's nothing wrong with that for them. But for me, success in writing is about telling my story - our story - and telling it well. Developing my craft. Loving what I do. Seeing where that takes me - or doesn't.

It's about growing as a writer.

Leaving a legacy in words and memories for my family.

Reaching just one reader, not one million readers.

Healing a wound.

Touching a nerve.

Having a laugh.

Being unapologetically me.

And while I'm very happy to share that journey with whoever wants to come along, I don't need any kind of fame to validate what I'm doing.

I'm pretty fucking ordinary in the best of ways. I'm a mom and a spouse and friend and a daughter. I also happen to be just one little writer telling her tale in a big sea of Internet. That's it.

And I'm surprisingly okay with it.