A Blog Too Far

Blogging is funny. At least for me, what ends up on the page is never what I originally intended to write. Turning ephemeral thoughts into digital sentences is arduous. Posts take on lives of their own, twisting into tangents, hopping down unexpected avenues, taking on a tone unforseen. Perhaps if I was a better writer, or less impatient to just be done with it, I could control the beast.

I bring this up, because while I often worry over what I’ve written, I’ve been thinking more than usual about yesterday’s post. Quite frankly, it’s embarrassing. As is this entry, oddly. All I needed to say was “I slightly pulled my hamstring last weekend and I haven’t run since. It sucks, but I hope to get back soon.” Then I could have followed that up with a run-down of my daily diet, a pedometer count of my steps taken around the block, and a mention of the 82 sit-ups I did right before bed.

But instead I went on and on (like now?) about running as “identity” and broken hearts and other maudlin nonsense. You see, I think too much, and while I rarely speak those thoughts (much to the chagrin of my wife), something about the blog entices me to unload that which I would never utter orally. And worst of all, I wonder if I even mean half of what I write. Too often, I’m just straining to be mildly interesting, worried that I’m not living up to expectations or completely missing the high-larious mark. It’s a tough row to hoe, this blogging bit, and I apologize in advance. Or something like that.

But I guess it is what it is, good days and bad, just like my running. Which is interesting too, because I compose much of my blogs while I’m running. I turn phrases in my head, or think of anecdotes, or juggle possible titles, or try to fit in Andre. When I come across something I feel is worthwhile, I try to commit it to memory, hoping it will be there at midnight when I finally find time to type it all out. But usually this is where the trail gets lost and I go off track.

For instance, in yesterday’s blog I wanted to mention my string of bad luck at the beach, to riff on karma … how I lost my wedding ring, pulled my hamstring, lost the race, broke my sunglasses, blew out a tire on the drive home. I also wanted to mention the high school cross country race I ran with on the beach … how it must have been JV because they seemed to be running so slow, but how great, or awful, it might be to do all of your races on the beach. And I toyed with the idea of relating my running to my writing, how I couldn’t write last week because I wasn’t running. There were also morsels about Gilbert and body image and homoeroticism. Huh?

But I never got around to those ideas because, well, you read the thing, and it’s just so hard to not always focus on yourself. “Narcissism” is truly a fine description of these categories of blogs.

So finally, before I return to the mechanistic running log, one more self-criticism of these blogs: too many “being” verbs. I try to communicate with action, but I be not good at it.