If you’d told me three days ago I’d be writing my first blog post today, I probably would’ve laughed at you.

Then again, if you’d told me three years ago I’d have a MacBook and be a lead singer in the African Music Ensemble today, I probably would have laughed at you.

That’s why I try not to laugh at people. It’s the Age of Information, and we as a society have redefined that word, information. It can mean anything now, from census data to how much I love socks to what a mountainside looks like in a New England autumn. And so, in a world that is increasingly connected to itself, let me add my own tiny voice. Wether it gets heard or not is irrelevant. The fact that my voice is even here means that I am a part of the wave of information, for better or for worse.

I read somewhere (incidentally, on someone else’s blog) that blogging is essentially one of the most arrogant things you can do–namely, assuming that there are a bunch of people out there who have nothing better to do with their time than to read what you have to say, which is probably a pretty good copy of what millions of your peers have to say. I’ll agree with that. I’ve never been one to spout my inner thoughts when silence could’ve reigned; I don’t even like interrupting other people, and much less being interrupted. Who am I to take up your time when you could’ve been doing something else, or at least reading somebody much more interesting?

Which is why, if I’m going to blog, I’ll need to come up with a better reason.

Writing is like being naked, more than one author has said. Good writing exposes the author’s innermost thoughts and feelings, loves and hates, fears, hopes, dreams, daydreams, follies. To be a good writer you have to take off everything that protects you and insulates you, and we will judge what’s inside. Take out your organs and show us what makes them cry. And we will judge you.

And that is why blogging, when done correctly, is the opposite of arrogance. It is submission. To judgement. To the wave of information. Except instead of pages, I’m hiding behind a screen, and instead of thousands of readers, I could be talking to one or one million–and the best (and scariest) part is, I’ll never know. I have no way of knowing how big my voice really is. If that doesn’t take a leap of faith in myself, I don’t know what does.

And if there’s one thing I could use right now, it’s a little faith in myself.

And that’s why I’ve decided to start blogging. So, reader, if you exist, get ready to judge me all the hell you want. Here is what makes me cry, and laugh, and wonder, and speak. Here is what makes my mind run in circles, or what rocks it to sleep. With any luck, you might enjoy, or relate to, or hate, or learn from,  or remember, something in here. Hell, you might even discover the sort of thing in here you wouldn’t believe if I told you three days ago.

I won’t laugh at you.