If you are a more observant person than I, you may have noticed a rather significant lapse of time between this blog post and the last; and the last was, quite frankly, a cop-out. Although I have a number of at least somewhat valid excuses for such neglect on my part (two jobs, planning a wedding, moving, maintaining a fiancé, etc, etc, etc), I know deep in my heart that these things are, well, bull. After all, have I not found time to read the entire Harry Potter series in less than two month’s time since I missed it in childhood?
So, sir or madam reader, allow me to be perfectly frank with you. Spare me a moment to be open in a way that only the disconnected cyber-reality of the blogosphere can offer as I easily avoid your face-to-face interference reaction.
The answer to my absence is mainly this: fear. (Okay, okay…if we’re really being honest, my essential laziness may also play a role).
I recently recounted the same excuse and source of fear to two very dear friends of mine. I discovered that my mother reads my blog. Faithfully.
Nothing against you, Mom, I promise.
But remember that face-to-face interaction that the internet so conveniently avoids? Somehow this seems to be lost when someone on the other end of the couch reads your heart 15 minutes after you post it. I have nearly trained my fiancé to never, ever, under any circumstances ask me about the personal writing I allow him to read. My explanation? Everything you need is already there. I pour more of myself into the keyboard at my fingertips than to any other source. If you need more information, I have failed.
If you are fortunate (or foolish) enough to glimpse the words I place on a page you are probably a) a professor or classmate, b) a complete stranger, or c) going to get your head bitten off by yours truly if you ever mention the specific of a piece again. Perhaps I exaggerate (although, as Benjamin could attest to, perhaps not). But the main point being, as much as I desire to publish, to write, to be known, at times I find it is only in the most indirect and disestablished manner.
Of course, there are other fears involved as well. Professors who will discover the more trite side of my writing (not to mention imperfect and unchecked grammer). Anyone who might ever take personal offense to anything I say (people-pleasers unite…as long as it’s okay with everyone else). People judging me harshly for my out-of-control use of parenthetical remarks.
However, one of those same friends, though understanding, challenged my tendency to dig in my heels at the first sign of confrontation, as she so often does. She reminded me that leaving my mother’s house will not leave the fear of being known. She brought to my attention that my esteemed professors are no longer grading my words. She re-emphasized that to become a good writer, I must let people see my crappy work. She challenged/ordered me to post by the end of the weekend.
So here’s to you, Kate. Although, thanks to you, Mom, I still couldn’t bring myself to publish without at least one perfunctory proofread. ;-)
