I read Dooce for the first time today in months. And now I can't stop thinking about it.
I used to read her stuff all the time. I used to enjoy reading it. It was funny. It was interesting. It was real. I felt I could relate to her, and really found myself cheering for her when she did well, and sympathizing when she didn't. I discovered other blogs I liked by reading through the comments on her posts. Now though, on the off chance I look at her site I just feel a painful burning in my chest, and the word "why" reverberating in my head.
Some of it is jealousy. I would love to blog, and be a cottage industry, and move into big beautiful house after big beautiful house. I would love to have book deals, and be flown to New York. I would love the whole package. I have a wonderful life, with a beautiful family, and everything I need, but still, that grass looks mighty green from this side.
However, while jealousy is a part, what really keeps me from reading is the fact I don't think the same person is writing it any more. She's not funny. She's not self deprecating. She seem to alternate between bragging, and being defensive. Her pictures are still gorgeous, but the stories that went with them are gone. It makes me sad, because it's like I lost a really good friend who I liked to visit every day, and now I just see in the grocery store and turn down another aisle so I don't have to deal with her.
I don't know, I guess everyone has blogs they outgrow, or that they stop liking. I know I have lost and gained followers depending how whiny or funny I am. Luckily, there are still other blog friends out there who I still think are pretty cool. They just don't have huge mansions... Yet.