I always find myself having a bit of an issue with blogging. I love to write, of course, it being just about as natural for me as anything I do. But it becomes a bit of a struggle between being reticent to lay open the deeply personal things I tend to write about right now, but not wanting to not be one of those writers who bores you with the mundane details of my everyday life not because I particularly want to share it, but because it creates space, and arms distance. And sometimes, as much as I would prefer not to admit it, I need the buffer.
But I am not a woman who thrives in gray areas.
As melodramatic as it may be, I struggle with it. I think about some of my favorite bloggers who started blogging around the time I did; the cervical cancer patient who was barely a year older than me who somehow found a way to make radiation irreverent and funny and tangible. The wife being divorced by the only man she’d loved since childhood, recreating each moment of this unraveling of marital lives with such an exquisite, painful beauty that I would weep as I clicked through her pages. I remember them, some five years later; I wonder how they are, if they are, as though I knew them in real life. And I remember what reading their lives did for me and my sorrows and fears, even if the situations were not parallel.
And I think to myself, what if you are writing the thing someone needs to read?
Because I believe that. I believe that people who are given the gift of creation create not just for themselves, but for whoever might bear witness to it. If you find that too syrupy sweet for your own good, well, you haven’t been around here long enough.
It is hard for me, this metaphorical unwrapping, and I am not always good at it. But I do try. It is better than hiding, as I sometimes do. It is better than pretending, as I am working not to do. And it is better than wallowing, which I refuse to do. I always try. But sometimes, I have to just be still.