Why I Don’t Blog Much Any More

13423874_1073458316070045_6870175784010005492_nI was sitting here the other day wondering why it’s been so long since I’ve posted a blog. I was rummaging through my drafts–29 of them–in my posts thing over there <—- on the sidebar (no, you can’t see them), and wondering why I hadn’t ever finished the posts. So I went through and read some of the partially written posts and it finally hit me.

You see, with Facebook and the internet so readily available to almost everyone, connectivity is a big thing right now. And it’s a good thing, too, really, it is.

But there’s something very ‘exposing’ about that connectivity.

I’ll give you an example: Today, I got a letter in the mail from my ex. This is a guy who, for the better part of about 12 years (on again and off again, and on and off again and again), I spent my life with. I loved him. I figured he probably loved me. But in the end, our lives were just too different to sustain a relationship. I could go into explanations about that, but you see, I won’t. Typically, I would share a story with you, like I used to on my blog, a funny, poignant, nostalgic, sad and happy story that would have a moral or a meaning or a message of some sort, hoping I left it with the lesson I learned and how I’m a better person for having experienced it. But I won’t do that now.

Why?

Because, did I mention I got a letter in the mail from him today?

Yeah. But here’s the thing. He didn’t know where I lived. I have moved. It’s been 7 years since we’ve spoken of any consequence. I’ve changed my last name. And yet… he sent me a letter in the mail that I got today.

I called him to talk to him. Of course I did. You knew I would, didn’t you?

But I can’t tell you what we talked about.

Why?

Again, because, you know, he sent me a letter in the mail today.

You know how he did that? He Googled me. Which also means, you know, he can read this blog. Yup. So… no story for you! (said in my best ‘soup nazi’ voice–trademarked to Seinfeld or NBC or whomever)…

And that’s when it hit me: There are so many things I won’t share any more, because sharing in public used to be safe, because I felt this obscurity, this anonymity in being this ‘other me’.

I mean, I could write about the guy I dated once who was sent to prison for… but then he’s on my friends list on Facebook now, so I won’t.

Or I could tell you about this girl back home who I was complete infatuated with and… but then, my family wouldn’t understand my sexuality and it opens up a conversation that isn’t anyone’s business anyway.

I could maybe tell you about… no, they ‘followed’ me on Instagram the other day and might read my blog.

What about the time when I was… oh, no, my daughter’s friend’s mother is friends with her and they both are connected to me on LinkedIn.

Sigh.

And on it goes…

And I stall. See, I could write so fiercely because I never gave a shit what anyone thought about my writing or about me, the REAL me, because the people who were reading me were not people I had to face in my daily life. Special people, but distant folks. Good people, good friends, but friends who didn’t sit at my dinner table or come into my home. But now, with all this connectedness, it’s as though everyone is taking a seat at the foot of my bed and waiting for me to get busy.

Oh, hell, no! Anyone would stall under those circumstances! Well, not ANYone… but most people.

And to make matters harder, I’ve gotten more agreeable in my old age. When I was younger, I loved to debate hard issues, and really beat them down to their integral components, to turn a conversation inside out and upside down until we had hashed out all the details, even if no one’s mind was changed.

These days? I’m just too fucking tired to fight. Plus, where’s the positive energy in that? Maybe it’s because I’m sick (you can read the blog about my health and terminal condition if you are so inclined)… maybe it’s because I’m just smarter now than I was then and I know that arguing isn’t going to get anyone anywhere.

Mostly, I think it’s that I prefer now to look for all the ways we as humans are alike than to see all the ways we might be different, and I choose to leaned toward the samenesses of things. Yes, Samenesses is now a new word, and you may feel free to use it any time you’d like.

But that causes me to also back off of writing on controversial topics.

And yet… I don’t stop WANTING to write about these things. I do still think about them. Sometimes I even write the blog posts in my mind. But the problem is, unless I could write them and then keep myself from ever reading any of the comments posted on them, or about them, I couldn’t put them out in the real world, because I don’t want to be responsible for putting that negativity that would come from it out into the world.

I don’t know. It’s a ‘me’ thing, I know. One could argue that perhaps I would change someone’s mind with my perspective, and perhaps I will–but you’ll find it in my fiction these days, not my blog–but for now, I find myself pulling within.

The problem is, when a writer isn’t writing, it’s like a literal death. I’m dying inside from it every day I don’t get it out and share it or tap the fingers or say the words I’m feeling or thinking. They jumble around in my head until I’m in a state of confusion and frustration. And then the voices start to talk to me, and taunt me, and tell me to write about them!

And so I give them voice and do… if for no other reason than to shut them the hell up!

Did you ever wonder WHY I was crazy? It’s the voices, man… the voices in my head.

I’m off to write fiction now. This ‘reality’ stuff bites.

Love and stuff,

Michy

 

 

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