Blogging fear
As I handed out the makeshift business cards Mr. Wonderful kindly made for me before a recent writing conference, I experienced a panic pang.
I forgot the link to this blog is listed directly below my contact information. And. I couldn’t recall the last thing I wrote about which, of course, will show up front and center. Then. I wondered if the things I write about– and my love of “foul” language (which is, really, just a bunch of words)– would offend the three Baby Boom generation ladies I handed the cards, too. More, I couldn’t help but wonder if my mother had read my posts about how much I f*ing hate Father’s Day , or about how I can relate to the lead characters in Sex and the City, and didn’t bother to say when we last spoke.
Where is a cave when you need one?
Blogging fear seems to be the theme of the week, though, since it’s weaving its way through the news: The A.P., Hot News and Hotheaded Blogs (NYTimes), Blogger arrests hit record high (BBC), etc– so I guess it’s on my mind.
But, you know, if I alter what I’m going to write about on this blog– in any way– for anyone then I’m not being true to myself, my writing or the purpose of this blog. I mean, what’s the point of having a disclaimer if I don’t push the edge (which I, admittedly, don’t push very hard)?
I worry. (And, we’ve covered this.) I worry about such ridiculous things. I hate to admit I worry. I do. But– I DO: I worry.
What if an editor or publisher decides not to work with me because some bull shit I posted on my barely read blog offends some random, outlier of a person? What if my mother cries because I spill my guts– guts she works so diligently to erase from her memory? What if my super conservative uncle finds his way here and <gasp> realizes I’m no longer 10 and that I form original thoughts all on my own? What if those three Gen-BB ladies think less of me? (Side note: not that they don’t already– as I left dinner I heard one of them say, “I didn’t realize she was that old.”)
What if?
I’m so damn tired of worrying and what-if’ing myself.
My mother knows the truth. My uncle will live. I don’t want to work for publishers that can’t handle the truth from my perspective or editors who worry about some singular reader’s complaint. Those ladies are unlikely to read anything on this blog, or care if they do; it’s silly to even bring the subject up.
Life is too damn short for this nonsense.
I’m proud of my writing. I’m proud I’m willing to put my thoughts and feelings “out there.” I’m delighted I’m strong enough to take personal and professional risks.
All posts stand as they are.
