Today I was a blog of the day! How cool is that? I've always had a hard time writing for other people, and so I decided to turn to the anonymous beauty of blogging. (Okay, so it's not always anonymous.) I've always written and I've always hated being read. It stems from a couple of (apparently deeply-rooted) childhood memories:
1. In the fifth grade I sold poems for money. It made me feel like a whore...a ten-year-old nerdy whore, but a whore nonetheless.
2. A few years later I decided to bare my soul and allow myself to be vulnerable. I read my newest short story to my mother while she was brushing her hair. It was about horses. She said she didn't "get it".
3. A sneaky high school teacher entered one of my poems into a competition without my consent. I won the contest and was forced to attend a writers workshop with some famous author. He proceeded to analyze my writing to the point where I didn't even recognize it anymore. Pacifist tendencies...futility of war...feminist leanings. WTF?
Anyway, my husband (okay, I'll admit it - that feels weird) loves what I write, when I'm bold enough to share, and he always talks about the day when I will publish. I used to silently swear that would never happen and that the first order of business to be carried out upon my death would be the cremation of every word I'd ever set to paper or screen. I have recently begun to soften. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
People, who I don't know, read my blog. And they liked it. I don't feel like my soul has been left to rot in the open air and I haven't been ridiculed. It just felt nice...like somewhere out there, somebody gets it. And that, after all, is what it's all about.