Recently in Re(d)rospective Category

Six years ago today I woke up in a tiny rowhouse in Hampden, a quirky neighbourhood in the city of Baltimore. On that day, instead of simply rolling over and falling asleep again – as was my usual habit – I actually got up, ran to the computer, logged on and squealed with disbelief and delight when I saw this.

When I entered Emily’s Win-A-Blog contest, I never in a million years thought that I even had a remote chance of winning it. For some time, I had been quietly following her blog (which is now, sadly, defunct, because the girl is leading an offline life brimming with fullness, love and success). When she announced the contest, I merely took a shot because it was a way of reaching out to her, this fellow redhead who I had come to admire so much, without seeming like a complete stalker.

I don’t think Emily is aware of this, but at the time of the contest (and for a long time before that), I had been gripped by an ongoing, soul-sapping depression. When I wrote my three entries for the contest, it was the first time I had done any writing or anything remotely productive in ages.

But something about her contest managed to reignite a bit of a spark in me. After a long stretch of barely existing in a fog of monotony and constant malaise, I desperately needed something to look forward to again. That contest became it for me. And when I miraculously won, it also gave me a reason to get out of bed again. I am honestly not exaggerating when I say that this blog has quite possibly saved my life.

Little did I know back then how blogging would not only help to slowly usher me back into the land of the living, but what a huge role it also eventually ended up playing in helping me to actually earn a living as well.

Yesterday, in an e-mail (that was only just a tiny bit less sappy and sentimental than this post) to Emily, I wrote: “By the way, can you believe that redsaid.net will be SIX years old tomorrow!? I can't believe how many career opportunities that blog has brought me. Thanks to it (and you!), I'm now making a living as a freelance writer in online media and I’m also actually being paid to blog! So yes, chicka, I'll be forever grateful to you and that Win-A-Blog contest of yours.”

Despite my horrible neglect of it, I still love this blog as much as that first day I saw it. I’m still crushing on Joelle’s gorgeous design. I am still thrilled whenever I receive a comment. (If it hasn’t abated after six years, I think it’s safe to assume that the novelty will probably never wear off.) I’m also beyond thrilled that some of you, who have been here since that first day, have stuck around and that you still bother to read and even comment on my infrequent ramblings.

I know that real writers always say that they mostly write for themselves. But I am pretty sure that I would not have bothered to keep this up (even as sporadically as I have been) without any of you. So thank you very, very much.

P.S. Oh, and Dee? My blogging career would not be complete without me breaking yet more things in the template which made other somewhat important things disappear from the blog... Oh, and all my hot links seem to have changed from purple to bright blue!? So if you have a moment to spare, I would REALLY appreciate your help again please, oh Web Goddess Who Is Now A Qualified Mistress*! I PROMISE I will never ever try and tinker with your code EVER again! No, really. This time I mean it.

*She's a chick with a hot-off-the-printer Master's Degree, geddit?

“’Ello there. Eet ees so nice to meet you.”

Her English was fluent, but the unmistakable French accent elegantly, musically rolled from her tongue. It filled me with immense joy, not merely at the prospect of having the opportunity to practice my pathetic, near non-existent French, but also because it prompted me to immediately – and mistakenly – assume that she, like me, also hailed from the Mother Continent.  

“D'où est-ce que tu viens?” I asked, just to be sure.

Her eyes widened with delighted surprise. “Tu parles français!”                                                      

“Non, non! Je ne parle pas français. I’m South African!”I quickly explained, before she even had the opportunity to enthusiastically launch into rapid-fire, French-as-a-first-language dialogue. She seemed highly amused when I told her that I could not speak her language in her language. “I can only say a few phrases. I’ve always adored the language though and would love to speak it fluently one day.” Suddenly embarrassed, I deflected the subject back to her. “So tell me, where are you from?”

The answer she gave me that day now haunts me. Over the past few weeks, thoughts of her and her family have dominated my mind. But on that particular day, more than a decade ago, it was just one of the many thrilling aspects about her.