You Can Write, But You Cannot Hide

I’ve missed you.

I could give you all kinds of reasons why I’ve been weird about writing for the past several months, but I’ve written a version of that post before, and all the reasons are kind of boring at this point, aren’t they?

So let’s do this: lets just move on.

But there are going to be some changes around here, and I feel like I at least have to warn you ahead of time. The truth is, I got super bogged down with all the cute blogging tricks, and that takes soooo much time, you guys! Like, finding a gyph can take way longer than writing a decent sentence in which you say what you really mean.

I started this blog because I want to write.

I want to connect.

And while funny gyphs, clever photos and SEO friendly titles may encourage a few people to tune in, for me it’s kind of the blogging equivalent of stuffing my bra. That’s not actually who I am. At least, it’s not who I am every single week on Wednesday, in eight to twelve hundred words, rain or shine.

Instead, I am going to focus on writing true.

Ima do it when I can, however I can.

I am going to work very hard to be consistent because apparently that’s important when you want to get better at something, whether it’s writing or taxidermy.

Consistency separates the real writers from the people who use their “Writing Time” to eat scones and read books on writing while taking occasional breaks to cruise Pinterest for sheet pan dinner recipes.

Or so I’ve heard.

The other reason I started this blog, and return to it again and again, is that blogging is fun.

I imagine it’s like photography, in that it kind of gets you looking at life differently. “Oh, look how the light falls on that crust of bread- I want to capture that.”  When I’m into my blog, I see patterns I might otherwise miss. I might still be flinging spaghetti against the wall, but by writing about it, I find meaning in what sticks.

Blogging is uncomfortable. This discomfort is part of what makes it worth doing.

I’ve shared before that I worry a personal blog is, in the words of my twelve year old, kinda cringy.  

Over and over I ask myself, why anyone would care about the minutia of my little life in the San Fernando Valley, yada yada yada. But even if I’m able to get past that, there is a worry that came up after a year or so of posting regularly, and I just haven’t been able to shake it.

If I’m going to write true, then I might not come off looking so great. I talk all big but, in truth, I am afraid of being cast out.

Can you relate?

I have a recurring dream in which I frantically attempt to hide the body of someone I’ve murdered. The killing doesn’t take place in the dream, it’s only the desperate wrapping in plastic, or burying under leaves, garbage, stuffing into a closet. The body leaks and smells and I know I will be found out. I wake in a sweat, relieved that it was only a dream, and that no one will ever know how broken I really am.

So there’s that.

Do you ever feel that kind of free-floating shame?

It can appear as procrastination, perfectionism, defensiveness, and plain old bitchiness. I admit to having these on a steady rotation, and I’m pretty sure they all spring forth from the deep well of shame I have within.

Why would a person who has spent her whole life ducking and covering take up a practice that, if done with integrity, will certainly result in her feeling exposed?

I must just want to stop hiding the dead bodies.

So, on that note, Happy Holidays, friends!

It’s good to be back 🙂