Wife/mother/woman crap: August 2008 Archives

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One of my longtime readers emailed last night to ask why I don't post as regularly anymore. Somehow the discussion got all big and philosophical and it ended up becoming this big armchair therapy deal wherein I realized a lot of things.

The gist was that my faith in people was really shaken this year, following my massive screw-over by the P-D. Chase that with several people who came along years after I first used, established, and trademarked my website's name and tried to use my mark in various ways. I am very cynical and don't trust easy and it was really alarming for me to watch as all of my ridiculous little neurotic hang-ups were confirmed. Oh. And then there was all the drama in the comments for my SXSW panel. (Thanks to those who shared kind words.)

I kept writing, as I always have, as it was suggested to me and encouraged by a therapist when I was a kid because it was the only real way to draw anything out. It's a survival technique just as much as it is a hobby. This has been a weird year (but punctuated with some really amazing things like the 30 Under 30, et al.) and because I wear my heart on my sleeve, my tone and words mimic whatever it is that I'm feeling. I exorcise any hurt by spitting it out in paragraphs but even I know that there's only so much poison you can throw out into the world. So a lot of what I've been writing lately has been private. I've also been busy with a side project and have gotten bogged down with a couple other things.

I have no idea where I'm going with this so let's just roll. For awhile I felt like I was writing more for other people than for myself. It's not bad to have that feeling, but I think writing suffers when it's not balanced by an awareness of audience and self-motivation. I have always written for myself first. I didn't think about what others would think of it, about family that would find it and freak the hell out, the PC implications, the censorship, all of the extraneous crap that sanitizes and ruins writing. Then at one point I pulled my head out of the sand and I saw what was going on and I hated it. I hated having to come up with cutey-little mommy columns and when I bordered on the line of what I really wanted to say the squares would freak out. I don't like writing equally-cutely little blog posts and be all yeay! It's so easy! Homeschooling and raising kids, and doing a radio show and let's all skip in a field of daises! Because it's not. And I hate sanitizing my life for the sake of a happy little blog post. That's not living.

Still don't know where I'm going with this. Sure, I could stick with kids' fashion or home interiors, or commit to just discussing the Polly Sunshine aspects of life but that's not life. I could also just open a Word document and write it all in there instead of, as some say, go attention-whoring in a post. That's great and all, except that throughout this whole "writing for myself first" thing I've come to realize that you and I have developed a little repertoire. You push me to write better, to analyze things better, to essentially keep a better record of my life. I could use you as a scapegoat and say it's because of you that I don't write in a notebook. Yes and no. I like the closure that comes with hitting "publish," too. I don't fully understand it; it's all of these things and then some.

So I haven't been writing as often or as in-depth partly because I've had to break through some sort of fourth wall in my own mind and get over some things. It's a reason comments are off a lot, not like I get a frillion of them or something, because it's a nice trick for me to pull more out of a graph than if I think comments are on. Is that weird? I just think a lot of women get caught up in statistics and who's publishing what where, self-branding, and all of this other crap that has NOTHING to do with writing well. I don't want to feel trapped by that mindset.

Anyway, this is a jumbled up mess of a post but I feel better having put it out there. I may delete it later.

I'm going to go hang out with one of my muses. It's a good day.


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