On the Glorious Failure of Blogtober

One lit match surrounded by a ring of unlit matches.
Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Three. That’s my total post count from Blogtober, a month with 31 days.

I’m okay with it, though. I’ve spent too much energy over the years berating myself on not executing something perfectly, rather than focusing on the rewards and growth that come with simply trying. This was a better to start imperfectly than never at all attempt at rekindling something resembling an inner fire.

It worked, too. Though my Blogtober post count was weak, just trying at all netted these results:Invoiced a record high monthly amount for my writing/editing services

  • Finally set up my long-neglected web server, on which I now host five(!) domains
  • Set up this ‘ere WordPress site on my server, which awoke some dormant technical skills
  • Started turning a certain old website of mine into an online museum of sorts (coming soon)
  • Began building out my professional website
  • Started working out again after a two-month hiatus

I can’t overemphasize my delight at attempting web projects again. I knew I missed them; I just didn’t know how much. It’s comforting to have a home-sweet-home on the internet again, no matter how humble. Just knowing this site is here, and that I can tinker with it or deposit thoughts in it whenever I want is itself a source of inspiration. It makes my brain churn, but in a positive way.

Things I’ve Learned

Fire spreads. “Pay yourself first” is financial advice, but works as a mind hack for me. I write best when I feel a sense of delight, curiosity, or mischief. But dread often takes over when I have a lot of looming article deadlines, putting me far away from my ideal state of mind. Shifting focus from work to personal projects puts me in a creative mindstate—one that persists when I return my focus to work. When I pay myself first creatively, the resulting fire spreads to other areas of life.

I feel weird getting too personal in my old age. I might have felt more comfortable with the confessional aspects of blogging in my teens and 20s, but now it just makes me feel a bit… I dunno. Vain, I guess? Ridiculous, trivial. I mean, does the internet really need another voice of no import shouting into the void?

But maybe I shouldn’t care, because no one’s here. That said, no one’s really here, so who cares if I shout into the void? This is an empty playground, and it’s all mine, so I can be as weird as I want. This is a place for growing my skills and organizing my thoughts, not a stage to perform on.

Okay, abrupt ending time. Byeeeee.

Kelly Joi Phelan
A girl is no one.

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