I imagine that blogging is enslavement that leads to a life of absolutely no freedom to write whenever I fancy. I imagine that writing consistently would become machinery and the spirit of the creative process would die. I imagine that my private life would not be so private anymore.
Then again, what kind of writer does not have a writing habit to get their writing project done? What kind of writer is his or her only reader? Can writing really exist without engaging the people and the world around us or at least reflecting upon these things around us? No writer can exist in isolation.
So here I am writing the first post to this blog and wondering what the rest of these blog entries would amount to. Ultimately, for what purpose shall I write?
Since motherhood is so fascinating to me right now, my blog shall be about motherhood and how motherhood transforms me. My identity keeps shape-shifting that even the book I originally thought I would write has continued to elude me in its constant evolution. Since there are so many one-year experimental living books out there, perhaps I ought to give myself one year to figure out the final evolution of my book on motherhood.