WordPress – The Final Frontier

Occasionally I receive emails from fellow bloggers. I find it heartwarming. When I nearly lost Megan, a number of you reached out to me. The support I was given by my peers within this WordPress platform was touching and I needed it.

I have no choice but to write. If I don’t, I am not well. My first post on WordPress was this, “Test.” I clicked publish. I literally had zero clue what WordPress was, or what would happen. I was shocked when a few people ‘liked’ that first post. I didn’t realize it was actually ‘live’ and viewable, not just on WordPress, but for the entire internet world.

After the first year of writing on here, I happily admit that I had this thought, “To what end?” I asked myself what was the point of doing this. I thought about this for a few weeks and the answer became very clear. I write for myself. I need to write. And I’m massively thankful for WordPress. I use the ‘free’ version and it has produced astonishing results. I’ve connected with friends from around the world who helped support me through family hardship, publishers have researched my blog and invited me to submit to them, and I learned that apparently I write poetry.

If you are new to blogging and are asking similar questions about the purpose, I hope this helps. It’s not just worth your time, it’s part of your life. Just keep going. Even if you post something and receive zero feedback, likes, follows, etc. That’s happened to all of us. And at the end of the day, that’s OK too. Especially when you’re writing for yourself.

Cheers everyone, and seriously, thank you for being with me.

Matt

Contact:
https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/contact/

 

A Short Story-

In a Face
Short Story- Nonfiction
Written by -M. Taggart

In a Face

 

You can see intelligence in a face.

In college I was told by one of my English professors to not bother writing a book.
Actually, he told me that I wouldn’t. And to not bother.

I asked him why. He said, “It takes a lot of work to write a book. And so many students say they will, but they don’t. Or, a book is started and not finished.”

He was bald. He was having a hard time pushing his material into his carry bag. Which,
For some reason was already slung over his shoulder.

I’m bald. I was going bald while in college. I don’t care who’s bald.
He was bald.

So there he was, this man-thing, telling me to not bother writing a book.

I don’t want to be a writer
I am a writer.

But, he didn’t know this, he wouldn’t understand even if he did.
My professor had just told me his struggles to write a book were my own.

Another thing he didn’t know was that I had already written. A lot. And I wasn’t an English major. I took English classes because they were my young-adult recess.

When I read Kafka’s Metamorphosis we dissected it with a professor’s assistant.
She was Russian and spoke broken English. Our class of over 400 was broken down into small segments. My group was roughly 15.

We met with her every Tuesday at 4pm.
She would constantly ask for my interpretation of Kafka’s work.
I wondered if she asked for my opinion so often because I wasn’t afraid to speak in front of others. But, that was a lie. I knew why she asked. I just didn’t allow myself to accept it, not just yet. Isn’t it funny how we do this to ourselves.

She was driven by literature. She listened, and thought about her responses
before delivering. She would ask us what authors we enjoyed. Then she’d write the names of the authors in her notebook.

She was beautiful. Her mind. Her broken English.
Her struggle to express.
She seldom made facial expressions. Her eyes danced while listening.

You can see intelligence in a face.