I’ve been trying to write this post for at least three months. First I started talking about it with people. Then in fits and stops I started putting down words, but I could never bring myself to publish it or even get very far in the writing because I didn’t like what I had to say.
To put it bluntly: The blog community feels different to me. And not in a great way. To any of us who have also been feeling this dis-ease, I really do think we’ll find our way out of it and into something that feels welcoming. So this isn’t a goodbye at all, but it is a plea of sorts: I’m not the only one who feels this way am I?
Let me back up: Since 2006, Pink of Perfection has given me a reason to write and an audience of women who care about the tiny details of everyday life, just life I do, and want to make them resonate with art, friendship, and meaning. That alone has been more amazing than I ever thought having a blog could be.
Plus, it was fun. I liked seeing what people were cooking for dinner, what they were reading, what clothes they were thinking about buying. Even when we were striving for something more, our blogs felt rooted in reality, in something true.
And then Pinterest came along and the line between the real life and art directed-photo shoots got blurred. The number of images we were consuming multiplied by a billion. The internet, which had once seemed to me like a cozy, welcoming home of real voices, turned into a hall of mirrors. Everywhere we look, it seems, is something to aspire to: a better wardrobe, a better dinner, better snapshots of that dinner, better blog design, a better home. And the effect isn’t inspiring to me, it’s exhausting. My life does not look like that, even at its best, we think. And more than once it has made me stop and look at the photo I snapped of a simple steak dinner on Saturday night and think twice about posting it to this blog. It rained that night and we stayed home and sat at the dining room table and listened to B.B. King and laughed about something I can’t remember. I felt that I was home, that I was in love, and that the moment, despite a blemish on my cheek or a leak in the bathroom or a kitchen made messy from the cooking, was right. But my photo was kind of crappy, didn’t have fresh flowers in the frame or a burlap sack on the table, and definitely wasn’t anointed with clear, white sunlight. And so I didn’t even bother.