You don’t say.
Can you write about me in your blog, novel or essay?
Even though I like to think I can write about most topics that interest me, there are still a lot of things I don’t write about.
I don’t write about people I am actually really emotionally attached to. Places I can do, but people, nah.
Writing about people I love is hard because I never want to sound too sentimental, or even, too honest. Massive props to people who can write about their children, but that ain’t me, and it probably never will be.
Writing about people I have been mad at is a lot easier.
Writing about people I’m indifferent about is even more easy.
A lot in my life has changed. And I feel that sometimes when I’ve tried to put pen to paper (though, not literally, more like keystrokes on a screen), what I say sounds too dramatic, too personal.
Last year and into this current one, I spent some time each day weeding out desperate Facebook statuses I wrote when the platform was relatively new, trying to sound like Someone In Love. You know vintage me, the kind of girl who writes stuff like ‘I LUV and MISS my boyF sooooo much’. Yeah. Vintage me sucks.
But of course I can’t write about current me, because current me is also having to delete a hell of a lot of FB content for the past ten years. But… No one talks about that because it’s hard. It’s too current. It’s raw and real and it sucks.
So, I guess… Yeah. I guess if I’ve written a post about someone you know, and that someone you know is you, sorry. I feel okay about whatever situation it was now, and I’m not actually mad, upset or pining for you, but whatever it is had some kind of life writing merit.
And, if you haven’t featured here, well… there’s two reasons.
One: Obviously I haven’t swept my life writing bug detector into a scenario starring you.
Two: I’m not mad, upset or pining for you, but I don’t think that I want people to read what I would write. Sometimes blogging borders on those scrapbooking journal mums. I am not one of those, and I don’t want to read your scrapbook memories (probably not anyway). And sometimes blogging gets too personal when you’re silly enough to blog under your name, which is both popular and shared with fraudsters.
A few years ago I found myself stuck. A friend of mine died, and I couldn’t be at the funeral so I wrote my own tribute for him. I’ve gone back and reedited it time and time again. It is a fucking masterpiece. I couldn’t ever bring myself to post it somewhere. I’ve never shared it with his loved ones, though I could. It’s just for me to feel about about something that sucked.
I don’t know what’s in it for me, this life writing stuff. Sometimes my friends read my work, and more often than not, strangers stumble across it. Maybe it will be here for when my children Google my name, and ta-da, here is blog that doesn’t feature them, but does tell tales of woe, weight, whining and life lessons.
I must go. I am wearing some feet peeling mask boots (?!) which I bought on eBay this time last year and never got around to actually wearing. And now I’ve tried them, I wouldn’t recommend them. Plus, bad for the environment.