Still here.

Funny thing, how many times I've abandoned this project ("The Blog") for long periods of time because I convince myself I don't have anything to contribute to The Webernets that isn't done better, elsewhere.

I usually end up deciding that since I'm not making huge attempts at being traditionally "funny" and since I try to avoid any words that might make either of my grandmothers too terribly uncomfortable, AND since I don't post lots of pictures of myself in pretty clothes....I may as well retire the effort.

I've convinced myself of this something like seven times over the eight years that I've been blogging.

I prefer to write book reviews. Film reviews. Yeah, makeup reviews. I occasionally make fun of some celebrities, I occasionally write letters to myself.....there's not a nice, cohesive THEME to The Blog -- it's enough to feel like a lost cause, a wasted effort, like a project that some publishing house, someday, might deride as "not doing enough to build a fan base or to advance readership," for instance -- I don't get invited to guest post on Esquire's website, you can't find me on Slate or Salon, I don't bother with cute MS Paint drawings, I don't have a fancy camera and a buddy following me around snapping pictures of my cute Zara dress, or my pretty Miu Miu heels (not that I own them....), and I don't make a point to use the word Penis as many times as possible in a wryly ironic, Super Funny way of demonstrating how comfortable I am with Things Biological and Traditionally Embarrassing.

I Am Not That Blogger.

Yeah, after eight years, you'd think someone would have "discovered" me by now. They discovered Diablo Cody, back in the day, the way they discovered Tucker Max and Emily Schumann and a host of other bloggers-turned-minor-celebrities who were "at it" a hell of a lot fewer years than I've been "at it."

It boils down to Envy, I guess. Yes, with a capital "E." It's one of my "things." Capitalization.

So, Envy.

I'll even admit that I even envied my sister when she decided to fire up a Tumblr account and write things about her life that, I decided, made her seem infinitely more exciting, and interesting, and relevant, and likable than my little project managed to accomplish for me. And look at that -- when she linked back to herself on Facebook, people "Liked" it immediately, people lauded her witticism, her chutzpah, her honesty*. I looked back at my site and found it....considerably less lauded.

It should be an Olympic sport, the herculean task of comparing yourself to everyone else and finding yourself sorely lacking in every case. My self-loathing muscles get an astonishingly thorough daily workout. My self-loathing muscles could teach my abs and thighs a thing or two.

I wish they would.

Uh, what's the point of admitting that?

I suppose because it forces me to admit WHY I do this, even to a readership of 8 (counting both grandmothers and two aunts and my momma).

I don't blog because I hope to get a book deal. I don't decide to write a review of a poorly written book because I care if anyone really reads it. I don't bother posting written assessments of every piece of makeup I purchased this year because I have pipe dreams of creating a hot spot for cosmetic lovers to coalesce and share horror stories about the staying power of one eyeshadow brand over another.

I blog because I love to write.

I write because it reconnects me with the six year-old girl who listened to her mother read her The Chronicles of Narnia every afternoon and looked forward to being able to write her own "chapter books" some day. I write because it reminds me of those imaginary chapters of Ramona Quimby books I would craft in my imagination while falling asleep at nap time.

I write because a finely-executed sentence still gives me the same chills today that it gave me back in high school when I knew I'd nailed some sort of expository essay about Dante's Inferno, with the added glee that only I knew this essay was written *sarcastically* to please the teacher, half as a challenge -- to dare them to call me out on how perfectly I nailed that first paragraph, to dare them to pass a copy of that essay around to the class as an example of accomplished writing. They always did. If there's one thing I could do back in school, it was ace the "thesis sentence." No sports, no boyfriends, no fancy choir solos, no expensive jeans, no driver's license, just one hell of a command of the five paragraph essay.

I write because -- at the end of the day -- it's one thing that brings me more joy, and more peace, and more calm, and more satisfaction than anything else I know how to do. It's one thing I can point to and say, "Heather is good at that."

And so I do it ("The Blog") MY WAY, because I know all too well how easy it is to fall prey to prevailing media images about what girls are supposed to write about. We're supposed to post pretty pictures of ourselves in fancy little outfits with flawless skin and "beachy waves" and creative manicures and perfectly groomed eyebrows.

Or we're supposed to make funny jokes about boobs.

Or we're supposed to come up with fancy recipes with zero calories and manage to cook AND photograph the cooking at the same time.

Or we're supposed to have lots of babies and entertain other ladies who have lots of babies by talking about OUR baby-having experiences in new, funny ways (especially if it involves self-deprecating stories about vaginas -- the webernets love self-deprecating vagina stories).

Or we're supposed to be obsessed with weddings and parties and videos about creative engagement announcements.

Or we're supposed to be angry. Angry at men who have wronged us, angry at bosses who've underestimated us, angry at The Kardashians for misrepresenting us (and making lots more money than us!).

Well I am none of those things.

I'm Heather.

I like champagne enough to name my website after it.

I like makeup, but don't care to post fancy pictures of myself wearing it.

I have a "real job," but it isn't interesting enough to mine for anecdotes or dramatic enough to write even three sentences about. It's software support: it's not a place for Personality.

I watch a lot of movies, I read a lot of books, I buy a lot of beauty products and -- can we believe it...?? -- I end up writing about a lot of movies and books and makeup.

I'm a writer.

And I'll keep writing, even if no one reads this, because, at the end of the day, God gave me the itch.

I hope it never goes away.


*Hey guhl -- by the way, you deserve every one of those compliments, you're a natural, with lots of interesting things to say and, obviously, everyone loves reading what you write - !