Giving thanks

I wish I could write every day. For one, I wish I had the time for it – and for another, I wish I had the sheer amount of stuff on my mind that’s required to be engaging every day. Unfortunately, I really don’t, and I also don’t want to post things that I don’t feel are worth sharing. For instance, I’m pretty positive you all don’t want to read about outfits (I am NOT a fashion blogger… unless you like a newfound obsession of socks with Chacos). Maybe restaurant reviews, but I’m also not really qualified for that. Relationship stuff is boring, personal, and… boring.

Most importantly, I really hate it when bloggers attempt to portray a view of their lives that isn’t 100% true. It’s like, how do you afford to travel so much? Are you really going out for coffee again today? My concerns mostly have to do with the security of their finances, but also that these writers are contributing to an overwhelming sense of social-media-FOMO, and to the sense that my life isn’t all that awesome or glitzy or that I’m missing out on some great thing because they can somehow travel 300 days out of the year or eat out every night and I can’t.

I can guarantee that you’ll see musings, music, DC, college life, and probably some recipes and dorm design thrown in here in the months to come. You’ll probably also see copious amounts of academic stress (and attempts to relieve it), srat-crafting stress (recruitment is less than a month away!), minor triumphs and minor failures, and some bad unqualified advice.

I started this blog without any intention of having people talk to me about it. I started this blog without any expectation of people other than my parents reading it. I started this blog after a dry academic schedule, uninspiring first year in DC, and a few weeks of doing work that was reactive rather than proactive (basically I wasn’t creating any content, just performing administrative tasks). I started this blog after two draining and simultaneously wonderful years of poetry writing at Westover that left me burnt out and disillusioned by the idea of writing creatively. There really is something about relentless revision that sucks the life out of you; if you haven’t experienced that feeling yet, then you’ve truly been spared. Trust me.

I’ve been creating for as long as I can remember. In elementary and middle school I wrote stories and dreamed about being the next Great American Novelist. I posted these awful “novels” and “chapter books” to this wonderful site called KidPub and obsessively pored over the comments. I wrote poetry and took photographs in high school, so in retrospect, it’s no big surprise that something felt amiss my freshman year at GW. I wasn’t creating.

Ultimately, I started this blog for myself, which is why I’m honored, confused, and quite frankly embarrassed when anybody mentions anything about it to me… like professors (last week – I died). On one hand, it’s like, of course I should’ve realized that if I share this to every social media outlet under the sun, people will read it. On the other, I think I expected no one to say anything about it to me. Because it was bad. Is bad.

Basically, this is my long-winded way of saying, Thank you for reading, and I am so sorry for being awkward when you grace me with a compliment about East Coast Liv. Writing this blog brings me so much joy, and I’m absolutely tickled that some of you read and like it. (Hey, Mom.)

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