Over the years I have had several blogs. Blogs about reading and books, blogs about random musings and blogs about my life in general. And every time, in a year or two, I would stop writing. Mostly the reason was not being able to keep to a schedule – even though rarely anybody read my blog, so a schedule wasn’t really all that important. Or I resorted to posting lists about TBR’s and books to buy just to post something, eventually concluding that I wasn’t a big enough reader to also be a book blogger. Which was utter nonsense, of course, but I believed it.

I was reading too much about blogging and about which rules to follow. Eventually, I even thought that blogging might be passé. The twenty-first century had definitely started with blogs, but would not end with it, I reasoned. Blogs I had followed sinds the early 10’s and even slightly before that, were closing or simply turned into Instagram and, a few years later, TikTok accounts. The blog reader was dead.

Or were they? With the rise of Substack, reading someones musings seems to be the new way to spend time online without opening social media or news sites. I’d like to think there has always been a readership for lengthy-er blogs and personal ramblings. Maybe we had to fall into the social media trap to rediscover that.

Over the past five, six years that I haven’t been blogging, I got married, moved places, had a burn-out followed by a depression, bought a house and had a baby. More or less in that order. All the while also trying to be hip and keeping an interesting Instagram account, pinning perfect interiors and outfits and trying to watch all the important Netflix documentaries (but mainly watching comedies like Brooklyn 99 and feeling bad about it). Partly because I had to for work (I worked in publishing), partly because, well, that’s what ‘we’ twenty and thirty somethings did. Right?

But I never read as much (interesting) books as my colleagues and friends, nor did I travel abroad more than once (if any) a year, bought original clothes for a feed or had anything new to say. As I was struggling with my burn-out (which turned into a depression) and tried to get my life back in order (spoiler: I didn’t. Chaos still reigns.), I discovered a few things about myself.

Firstly, I like taking it slow but I’m bad at it. It is good for my brain and body, but my brain and body also think they should be doing other things when I try to do something slowly and deliberately. Like walking. Walking is good. But while walking I should be listing to audio books or an interesting podcast, right? Perfectionism is also the death of creativity. Original outlook, I know, but it’s true. Most of the time the perfectionist in me wants to do things now. This instant. Fuck learning, failing and asking for help. I want to be a fabulous knitter in a week. Or preferably one afternoon. So I’m quite often too scared to try new things. Because with learning new skills I will inevitably discover that I suck at something and realize that it will take a long, long time to get better at it. And that is something my perfectionist brain abhors.

Fortunately, I am getting a little better at ignoring the small and insecure voice inside my head. And every time that happens, I am able to be creative. That’s how I picked up some huge wooden knitting needles, opened up a video and learned how to cast on, to knit and to purl. And that’s how I was able, many a wonky scarf, headband and discarded projects later, to make my little son a woolen jumper. (That he will be able to wear when he is about two years old, because I was scared of the magic loop technique and made the smallest size that allowed me to use tiny circulair needles for the sleeves…)

My hobbies now include very basic levels of knitting, embroidery (mostly cross stitch), restoring and painting thrifted furniture, frames or toys, sewing and – the most recent addition to the creative family – quilting. It is still an ongoing process.