A few months into blogging and my unpublished list grows and grows. I get a feeling for a blog, then an idea fills in the spaces and I start tap tap tapping away enthusiastically. It flows and flows, from my brain to my fingers to the page. Baring my soul. Revealing my life away from cyberspace. Stripping away layers and layers of me, for once you peel away the surface, it’s the inner bits that hold all the passion. The passion gets me writing.
And then I stop. Reread what’s written. Wonder just who reads this blog amongst the millions out there. Ponder on how much of ‘me’ the virtual world needs put out there, among the dotsam and netsom. The blush rising up my cheeks is usually a good indicator I’ve gone one layer or more too deep. Too too much. It happens in real life too, but it’s teary eyes that indicate my vulnerability then, much to my horror.
Once again, my voracious need to communicate, in whatever medium suits, comes into direct conflict with my urge to lurk in the shadows. To “not let the bastards see your pain”. Though who these bastards are and why them seeing my pain would be so awful remains a mystery to me. Somedays I think this is paranoia, other days it feels utterly sensible. Nurture versus nature? Hormonal rushes? Or good old common sense?
I’ve always thought (hoped!) there’s a book to be written hiding inside of me. In my brain sits a tiny 1950’s style stenographer, taking notes and organising the information flowing in and out, taking details of my phone calls, sorting the wheat from the chaff, all the while managing to look as fabulous at the end of the day as she did in the morning (like I can never manage). What a huge job! If there is ever a book, she’ll get thanked first.
If only the battle between voracious versus vulnerable within ends with a white flag swung by both sides.