So it begins…

I guess I had better welcome myself to this void, also known as the Internet, otherwise no one else will. Bloggers do this, don’t they? Welcome themselves to this capricious environment of likes, posts, tweets, and comments? I wouldn’t know. I’ve tried avoiding it at all costs, but it seems my recently challenged old-fashioned views are finally compromising, allowing the bittersweet surrender to the inevitable. It’s bitter because I don’t want to do this, but it’s sweet because I’m excited. And that excitement is what compels me forward.

Perhaps I could start with my name, giving some sort of explanation behind the implications of why I chose it. Seems sufficient for a first time blog entry. What else would I do? List all these random facts about myself like some trivia game based on my personality, interests, opinions, and desires?

Though, the question, “Why Writing Lynn?” is a bit more revealing than telling you the fantasy novel series I most recently finished, and am still recovering from (Air Awakens by Elise Kova.) Or that I’m constantly in a tug-of-war between choosing tea or coffee. (I love both, okay?) Or what kind of day job I have. (I can’t. If I did, I’d have to find you and kill you.) Or give some pretentious review of the most recent film I saw in cinemas. (Spider-Man: Homecoming. Brilliant plot twist. One of the best.)

No, none of those factoids of the human behind your screen typing these letters would crack open the soul lying behind this digitalised mask. And that’s what the internet is for, right? Vulnerability without accountability? But one is accountable, just with an anonymity which lulls us into believing its harmless. It is you, the reader, to whom we are accountable. We have to feed you, and it is our souls which are the cost, the substance sustaining this relationship of blogger and reader.

Do I sound cynical? Oops. I guess I’m still trying to overcome my own discrepancies against blogging in general. But that’s just it. It isn’t just “blogging.” It’s writing.

And this is the format, the medium, which today’s Bohemians, artists, and authors are utilizing, turning their musings into a grand cacophony of stories. I admit, most is mere noise, but there are the rare few who make worthwhile music for readers like us.

For me, it is that I cannot contain my music, my writing any longer. Like August Rush who uses his compositions to find his parents, unable to suppress his innate desire of reuniting with them, I cannot suppress who I am. I have to write. And blogging gives me the accountability I need to keep me focused, steadfast. Even if sometimes I feel this symbiotic relationship is more parasitical, like a pelican plucking feathers from her own chest to protect her chicks from running into the nest’s thorny sides, I must write. I must give myself. To not do so would be to deny the very core of my soul.

And so it begins…