The First Post

Once, at no particularly special time in Cyberspace, there was a blog. It was a new blog, with its design settings barely dry, and hardly fully confirmed by its author. She was likely to change a background or a font for any whim of a reason, in search for the perfect collection of settings that truly defined who she was. The first thing she did was change the font of the first post to - well, anything but Times New Roman really. How she loathed TNR. She didn't really know why either. Perhaps anything that was classified as "default" simply irked her because it was never her choice, but something oppressed upon her words.

So. Verdana it was. Unlike Times, it was a basic sans serif font with no extra curly bits that she was sure the Romans never intended to put there in the first place. Verdana was honest. Like she hoped her words would be.

And with that, the first post of this new blog began to emerge. One hundred words quickly became one hundred and seventy-nine. The author began to get enthusiastic. She was in her element! Writing words in an unoffensive font, imagining what wonderful forms of audience might read it one day, what their responses would be, whether her words would be imprinted in their minds forever... 

She stopped. What if, her words were remembered for all the wrong reasons? Or worse, not remembered at all? What if the readers lost interest before the end? What if they didn't laugh when they were supposed to? What if she came off as pretentious, using lexemes that were clearly transposed directly from a thesaurus??

Then she realised she was panicking, and took a deep breath. It was going to be OK. Writing was the thing that made her feel more true to herself than anything. The author smiled as a tranquil feeling took over. All that mattered is that she got the chance to write. To tell stories, even if it was only to herself. Having readers would be amazing, having fans would be beyond brilliant, having critics would be - bittersweet, she laughed; but ultimately, at the end of the day, she was a writer. And nothing could take that away. She only hoped that with every letter, word, sentence, paragraph, and story, she would morph into a better writer than before.

She worked on the last and shortest paragraph, wrapping it up before leaving to make a cup of tea. The journey... had begun.


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