For quite some time now I have thought to myself, "Self. You should have a blog." Then I got all wrapped up in the plan part. Like, there should be a clear cut REASON, right? There should be some kinda over-arching thing I am trying to do or say or sell, or something, and it shouldn't be self-referential (which is quite frankly, all I've got.) Well I still haven't figured that out but here I am doing it anyway, so if you're here, looking for me to Be Interesting, sorry. Mileage may vary.
I have already spent too much time trying to nail down my own intentions. When it comes to writing I love/hate so hard on the planning part that I burn myself out before I get to the doing part. I write my witty bits in notebooks, concentrated little things that are really only for me. I start wee documents with notes about stuff that interests me, or stupid shit that happens, or ideas for things I want to make. But again, these are just for me so I don't jump in a worry hole when it comes to spelling or intent. I don't need a big shiny point for my private stuff. I'm not trying to follow my own narrative. I'm just catching some of the butterflies for later. With the understanding that not everyone gives a shit about my butterfly collection, and those who do shouldn't be subjected to the wing smashing mangle parts. I have been hoarding words without a plan for offloading them. I have always entertained the compulsion to save thoughts for later, but so far I lack the discipline to make something substantial and interesting out of all the scraps. They aren't even organized. I am annoyed at myself for already being 35, self-identified as a lifelong writer and collector of stories, whose only claim to fame is a few plays, a stack of journals, a few pieces on a dusty old website and the occasional ability to be really fucking funny at parties. So see, right there I could back away from the keyboard and sulk off to the kitchen to stew in my own mediocrity, where I have vodka and dishes to do and a chair I want to paint. But I won't. Maybe after this.
The act of sharing my reality also trips me up. This is not my first go around the Internet. I remember what happened the last time I wrote in public. I found an audience. That was emotionally and intellectually thrilling at first. Then, usually with awesome or sexy results, some of the people stepped into my real life. Then more people. Then that thing happened. That moment when our Best Selves stepped aside to reveal velvety smooth or pockmaggoty underbellies. That moment was either a big fat trans-formative YAY or it sucked the suck that can't unsuck itself. Sometimes, Real People snap you right in half. Twang! And that's an audience.
I also worry about hurting someone's feelings. Do I include or not include? What about being called out on a mis-memory? What if I reveal that some of the things that have been said or done were actually much worse for me than I let on. It's hard to be busting with stories and words but also worried about feelings. It's also kind of dumb to use that as an excuse not to write. I'm calling myself out on that in my sassiest Inner Mama voice. I can always sleep later, I plead to the gods of a five day writing jag...
No comments:
Post a Comment