I forget, with this blog. When I actually start writing consistently again, I forget that regardless of how it looks, people are watching. Some of them old friends, some of them friends from the blog, some acquaintances, some randos. I post these to Facebook so people can read if they want, but I mostly just write and tend to forget about it.
Today, someone asked me how my weekend was; I said it was okay — how would I even begin to explain? And then he called me out — asked me if it was super boring because I stayed in my room a bunch. HUH? How would you … The blog, that’s how. It seems like I’m always caught up in this weird dance with this blog — I feel best when I’m writing consistently, and I (mostly) like how the pieces turn out.
But the fact of the matter is, by and large the things I write about have personal significance to me — that’s why I write them, right? Conversely, it means that I’m sharing things that are personal and meaningful to me, and I honestly don’t feel I always do that in real life. In some respects, I’m an open book — I’m pretty accessible if you want to ask me questions about my family or about my (lack of) drinking or my political views. But, I’m *not* good at sharing that I’m scared about this or that or lonely because of this or feeling sad.
It’s so much easier to write that stuff — to put into print and let it leave me that way. I continually forget that people who read these things then know these things that I think I am keeping to myself, hiding away. I give away all my secrets and then wonder why people have a different opinion of me or why they seem to think they know me so well. I will say this: no matter what I write, I think that there are still things about me that people will never grasp unless we have personal contact — things that make me laugh or the way I look when I’m worried or the various emotions I can reveal with my eyes.
It’s okay if people read this — I want people to read this. But it definitely blurs the line between public and personal, and I constantly am trying to figure out where I want to be on that scale. The other thing that leaves me in somewhat of a conundrum is the fact that all the people who start to learn about my failings, freakouts and fears get something that I don’t get with them — they get an instant peek into my psyche, whereas I just get to scan the Facebook for pictures or infer from links some of the things that make them happy, sad or angry. It’s not a reciprocal relationship, to be sure.
At the end of the day, I just need to keep writing. I think it’s one of many reasons I’ve been put here, and so I will keep on. I just need to channel it better — that memoir, that novel, that one woman show. For now, I’ll be content that I’m inspired to write again. And I will once again remind myself of the lovely tidbit Tim Baltz gave me last week, “Don’t chase pride, chase inspiration.”