What one writes about things unshareable
I can’t write about anything truly meaningful to me, of late.
No, I don’t have writer’s block.
There was a blog I used to regularly read, now defunct, but at one point, the writer said, “You know, I could be a lot funnier on here if no one I knew read this blog.” I’m not often shooting for comic effect, but I have often remembered her words and completely understand her sentiment.
Given my druthers, I’d be completely an open book. I’m probably much too transparent, and don’t often see the potential fallout from unwisely revealing the secrets of my heart. However, so much of my life is tied into others’, and I need — for their sake — to be careful what I tell of their interaction with me.
That causes a mighty internal dilemma.
I had a wonderful 2.5 hour lunch with my dear friend Kathy yesterday. Among many other topics of conversation, we spoke about writing. She mentioned that she enjoys when I write about the struggle, the unfinished bits of life. I enjoy that, too: writing about the things that are pending, unresolved. I can’t find it in myself to write about the (non-existent) shiny, perfect, tidily-wrapped events in my life. I also don’t find any satisfaction in reading about The Pristine Life in others’ blogs, which means I don’t enjoy about 95% of the other “mom blogs” out there, because most women seem to post only the best pictures (in word and photo) of their lives. I’m not like that. I don’t envy the perfect lives of others; if they truly exist, more power to them! Or, more sparkles and smiles to them…
Does that sound bitter?
Truly, from the bottom of my heart, I’m not bitter. I wouldn’t trade my life for anyone’s.
I do enjoy when something resolves wonderfully that was hard-won, and I’m likely to write about that, as well.
But most often, it’s the path to resolution that I find most intriguing. I’m much more compelled to write about that.
I consider: If a blog-reader saw me in real life, would she say, “Wow. She’s so much prettier in her pictures.” That’s why you’ll never see a Glamour Shot pic of me on here, make-up perfect, perfectly coiffed hair gently blowing in the breeze, some gorgeous and well-accessorized outfit on my frame…
I consider: If a blog-reader sat down to dinner with our family, would they be aghast that we have trouble keeping Audrey head-up and feet-down, and keeping Grant from trying to treat everyone simply as ears for an apparent stand-up monologue? That’s why I don’t blog about only The Good Parts of Mothering.
I like to keep it real. Really, truly real.
But on the other hand, I do dearly want to be an encouragement, not a downer. I want to impart true hope, and long for my words to be pulsing with true life.
It can be a tough balance, at times.
Still, it’s one for which I strive, and that makes it all the more difficult for me to write, when the things that are deep in my heart, about which I crave to write, are unshareable. They’re just not mine to divulge, because they concern the lives of others, too, and blogging about it would dishonor them.
I semi-recently tried to write about a struggle involving another person, and thought I was vague enough to protect everyone involved. I wasn’t. It backfired, big time. There was an explosion of hurt feelings, and oh! that was a difficult, bitter pill to swallow.
I am so often exhorting my six-year-old whirlwind, Audrey, “Be careful! Be gentle!” but a huge part of me sympathizes with her exuberant bungling of pretty much everything, because I am that little girl, too.
Ah! This post has not entirely gone in the direction in which I intended. I was going to write about Jack the bulldog from Little House on the Prairie.
Next time, perhaps.
EDITED TO ADD: