Words
You know. I'm not the best blogger. I'm not even a good blogger. I'm not the best writer, and I often times wonder if I'm even a good or halfway's decent writer.
But for some odd reason, I don't let that stop me from making up stories.
You see, I know that this blog isn't much, and it certainly isn't consistent by any means. I have high hopes for it, and maybe that isn't such a bad thing. But every now and then I wonder, I just wonder what it'd be like if it looked like all those other popular blogs that I go to every other day, and I realized–I wouldn't be happy.
Sure, I might be happy in the moment, I'd be popular and have a lot of followers and probably a couple fans, but that's not what I want to do. It's not why I made this blog.
I started blogging because I wanted to write, and I had no other way to do it that seemed to look productive, and I wanted my writing altogether and looking nice and neat in one particular place. Hence, my first blog was born.
In a little under a year, that blog got deleted by Blogger because I ended up having an email account before Gmail introduced the age limit, and I was going to turn old enough in a little over a month, but because I'd "cheated" they deleted that first blog from my email account.
I almost lost everything I had written on there, had my mom not been my only and most avid follower, and had copied down every poem and piece of writing I had had on that blog on a separate program on her computer.
Shortly after I was old enough, I had a second blog that it still there in my sad little dusty attic, and it might not have been the greatest choice, or even a good idea, but it was mine. And gosh darn was I proud of that little blog. I had a small handful of followers on that one, all of them my friends and also my mom.
Then, I tried doing a joint effort blog with some of my other writer friends and it's a school and education based blog, where we were to write down things about what we were learning, and maybe some tips and tricks we'd found that had helped us to learn and remember things. I posted some, but I wasn't very good at it.
Then came this. But it went by a different name when it began, 'A Touch of Euphoria' which is why the web address for what is now known as 'Bluebirds and Birch Trees' is touchesofeuphoria, and not bluebirdsandbirchtrees.
Then, I tried being cool, and maybe a little edgy and have a super themed blog. But now, I've just started to have fun. Have fun with the layout, and play with the colors. Have some pictures to make it fun and spice it up.
All of this, it may not be perfect and it might not even be good. But I'm learning, and when it comes right down to it it's how I've learned almost everything that I ever taught myself.
I was shown how to use a computer when I was three, maybe four years old. By the time I was seven or eight, I was playing with the family laptop and teaching myself all about programs like Microsoft Word, Excel, and even to an extent, PowerPoint. I played with it almost every day, sometimes for a few hours at a time, just making whatever came to mind.
When I was 10 I had an old iMac in a deep blueberry color, which lasted maybe several months before it just quit. (I still don't know where it came from to be honest) After that, I had what used to be the family's Mac Mini. I used that thing like there was no tomorrow! It was also, consequently, the very first computer I ever wrote a story on.
It was just a single page, and had two characters, each very oddly named and with extremely different outlooks on life. It was then followed by several other stories branching off that one page of exchanged dialogue.
By the time I was 12, I had "graduated" from the Mac Mini, which was still going strong but was being sent to another family member. I got our family's very first MacBook Pro. It was only a few years old, and it wasn't by any means new when I got it, but I had that computer for years, and it served me so well that I was denying the fact that it was starting to give out and die.
Earlier this year, a family member of mine got a new computer, shortly after which, the graphics card on my computer that I had used for over six years just one day didn't turn on. Turns out, the computer did turn on, the screen was just black, and nothing would happen.
Exchange of hard drive information, and in less than a month, my family member had gotten another computer, and given me the smaller one that had just been starting to get "broken in" and used.
Now. I'm using my fourth computer, a MacBook Pro, my second one, and I'm still learning things about computers.
I can honestly say that I "grew up with computers" because to have one in your home and to have the family use it by the time I was little, had already happened. But for me to remember seeing this massive tan machine sitting in my family's house, to going to this inch thick silver thing sitting on my desk is something I don't always think about.
We had a corded phone in our kitchen. I now carry a cellphone in my back pocket.
When I was little, the world was so big, yet it was also very small. Small because to me, there wasn't anything I thought about that wasn't outside of my house.
But when I go back and I think about what I was thinking at any given time, I am astonished at myself, because I'm remembering all of these thoughts and observations that I really shouldn't have been able to make as a four year old girl.
But I thought them.
How?
How did I seem to think so much and know so much about what was going on around me while most the time I seemed to never think about what went on in the world around me?
The world didn't matter.
My family mattered. My family still matters. They will always matter.
It was not that I was unaware of the world, but it's rather like I chose to ignore it. My world consisted of my family, and the stories I was even then building and creating.
So what does all this say.
Even I don't really know.
Sometimes I just want to talk
and even then, to nobody in particular.
Sometimes you just need to write out the words
and see them on the screen.
My posts almost never end with how I started. I always deviate in some manner or fashion. Yet in the end, I seem to have written quite a lot more than if I had previously planned.
Words have a way of spilling out of me when they've been held back for too long. And then, after a short while, or maybe a longer respite, they'll slow down again, until they're hiding back inside me again. Waiting for that next right moment for when they'll all start to flow out of me again.
So if you've read this long, or maybe scrolled to this point in time and space.
Maybe what I'm trying to say it; you don't need to be perfect.
You just need to have something to say.
But for some odd reason, I don't let that stop me from making up stories.
You see, I know that this blog isn't much, and it certainly isn't consistent by any means. I have high hopes for it, and maybe that isn't such a bad thing. But every now and then I wonder, I just wonder what it'd be like if it looked like all those other popular blogs that I go to every other day, and I realized–I wouldn't be happy.
Sure, I might be happy in the moment, I'd be popular and have a lot of followers and probably a couple fans, but that's not what I want to do. It's not why I made this blog.
I started blogging because I wanted to write, and I had no other way to do it that seemed to look productive, and I wanted my writing altogether and looking nice and neat in one particular place. Hence, my first blog was born.
In a little under a year, that blog got deleted by Blogger because I ended up having an email account before Gmail introduced the age limit, and I was going to turn old enough in a little over a month, but because I'd "cheated" they deleted that first blog from my email account.
I almost lost everything I had written on there, had my mom not been my only and most avid follower, and had copied down every poem and piece of writing I had had on that blog on a separate program on her computer.
Shortly after I was old enough, I had a second blog that it still there in my sad little dusty attic, and it might not have been the greatest choice, or even a good idea, but it was mine. And gosh darn was I proud of that little blog. I had a small handful of followers on that one, all of them my friends and also my mom.
Then, I tried doing a joint effort blog with some of my other writer friends and it's a school and education based blog, where we were to write down things about what we were learning, and maybe some tips and tricks we'd found that had helped us to learn and remember things. I posted some, but I wasn't very good at it.
Then came this. But it went by a different name when it began, 'A Touch of Euphoria' which is why the web address for what is now known as 'Bluebirds and Birch Trees' is touchesofeuphoria, and not bluebirdsandbirchtrees.
Then, I tried being cool, and maybe a little edgy and have a super themed blog. But now, I've just started to have fun. Have fun with the layout, and play with the colors. Have some pictures to make it fun and spice it up.
All of this, it may not be perfect and it might not even be good. But I'm learning, and when it comes right down to it it's how I've learned almost everything that I ever taught myself.
I was shown how to use a computer when I was three, maybe four years old. By the time I was seven or eight, I was playing with the family laptop and teaching myself all about programs like Microsoft Word, Excel, and even to an extent, PowerPoint. I played with it almost every day, sometimes for a few hours at a time, just making whatever came to mind.
When I was 10 I had an old iMac in a deep blueberry color, which lasted maybe several months before it just quit. (I still don't know where it came from to be honest) After that, I had what used to be the family's Mac Mini. I used that thing like there was no tomorrow! It was also, consequently, the very first computer I ever wrote a story on.
It was just a single page, and had two characters, each very oddly named and with extremely different outlooks on life. It was then followed by several other stories branching off that one page of exchanged dialogue.
By the time I was 12, I had "graduated" from the Mac Mini, which was still going strong but was being sent to another family member. I got our family's very first MacBook Pro. It was only a few years old, and it wasn't by any means new when I got it, but I had that computer for years, and it served me so well that I was denying the fact that it was starting to give out and die.
Earlier this year, a family member of mine got a new computer, shortly after which, the graphics card on my computer that I had used for over six years just one day didn't turn on. Turns out, the computer did turn on, the screen was just black, and nothing would happen.
Exchange of hard drive information, and in less than a month, my family member had gotten another computer, and given me the smaller one that had just been starting to get "broken in" and used.
Now. I'm using my fourth computer, a MacBook Pro, my second one, and I'm still learning things about computers.
I can honestly say that I "grew up with computers" because to have one in your home and to have the family use it by the time I was little, had already happened. But for me to remember seeing this massive tan machine sitting in my family's house, to going to this inch thick silver thing sitting on my desk is something I don't always think about.
We had a corded phone in our kitchen. I now carry a cellphone in my back pocket.
When I was little, the world was so big, yet it was also very small. Small because to me, there wasn't anything I thought about that wasn't outside of my house.
But when I go back and I think about what I was thinking at any given time, I am astonished at myself, because I'm remembering all of these thoughts and observations that I really shouldn't have been able to make as a four year old girl.
But I thought them.
How?
How did I seem to think so much and know so much about what was going on around me while most the time I seemed to never think about what went on in the world around me?
The world didn't matter.
My family mattered. My family still matters. They will always matter.
It was not that I was unaware of the world, but it's rather like I chose to ignore it. My world consisted of my family, and the stories I was even then building and creating.
So what does all this say.
Even I don't really know.
Sometimes I just want to talk
and even then, to nobody in particular.
Sometimes you just need to write out the words
and see them on the screen.
My posts almost never end with how I started. I always deviate in some manner or fashion. Yet in the end, I seem to have written quite a lot more than if I had previously planned.
Words have a way of spilling out of me when they've been held back for too long. And then, after a short while, or maybe a longer respite, they'll slow down again, until they're hiding back inside me again. Waiting for that next right moment for when they'll all start to flow out of me again.
So if you've read this long, or maybe scrolled to this point in time and space.
Maybe what I'm trying to say it; you don't need to be perfect.
You just need to have something to say.
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