Can you keep a secret?
I don't like people to read my writing. Not this bloggy stuff. I could shovel this out all the live-long day. Plaster it on the side of a city bus. Paste it on a billboard. Stuff flyers under the windshield wipers of four-wheel-drive trucks at Walmart. Makes me no nevermind. I'm anonymous, by cracky! "So what? Who cares?" as Fred Armisen as Joy Behar would say on SNL.
It's the real writing, under my own name, that I protect like a newborn at the height of flu season. I don't want it out there where people can gawk at it, chuck it under the chin, insert a germy index finger into its tiny fist. What if they think my new baby is ugly? If they must turn their heads and wretch immediately after setting eyes upon it? What if they say my baby is BREATHTAKING?
My tender offspring must be protected. Shielded. Dandled on my knee and cajoled into cooing at the wretched masses until their prying eyes soften, crinkle, gaze with utter awe at my progeny. And it's not just the fully-formed infants who need protection. It's the seeds of ideas. The tiny embryos. All need a safe haven in which to germinate.
I was mortified this afternoon when I arrived home and found a notebook in plain view on the living room coffee table. A notebook I had left in my laptop bag. The laptop bag which Genius confiscated to take on his MIT alumni interview on Saturday in Webster Groves. A notebook which was open, flipped back around its spiral spine, exposed like a passed-out sorority girl with her dress hiked up around her waist, an object of curiosity for anybody who walked by.
There was nothing earth-shattering on the pages. They were filled with my block printing, all caps (who knew?) detailing ideas for writing projects. My face flamed red. I dashed to rescue my naked ideas. Slammed the opaque purple cover shut. Shuddered. Looked around. Only Genius and I were home. But still. That's one person too many who saw my writing.
I believe I fall at the high end of the introversion spectrum.
I guess my philosophy of blogging is a bit different than yours. I wrote novels for years and had agents tell me to try something else. So I decided to try building an audience for my writing through blogging. What I post is the best stuff I've got. I'm not going to wait around trying to convince a few disgruntled agents that I know how to write.
ReplyDeleteBut maybe they won't deem it as "breathtaking." Perhaps one day--if you finally DO start sending out your stuff with regularity and pieces start getting published and winning MORE prizes--we can all say we knew you when...or didn't know you, because that's the way Val likes it.
ReplyDeleteKids and spouses are usually not good choices, if you ever do decide to share your writing with others. Take it from experience...
You can't hide those prying eyes. Mama always said, Never put in writing what you want to hide. Hmmm.
ReplyDeleteStephen,
ReplyDeleteI am a slice-of-life pantser. Each evening, I sit down at the keyboard and start a convoluted tale from scratch. Twice. I have this blog and another. An hour minimum, and I'm done. Sometimes I chase rabbits down roads less traveled, and time gets away from me.
You put out a much more polished product. But I would venture that neither of us has more fun doing it than the other. If agents knew how to write, they would be writers, not agents.
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Sioux,
Maybe I could even sit on a dais with Mel Torme. Which would be a bit creepy now, since The Velvet Fog has lifted. My weakness lies not in the writing, but in the sending out. I hate to share.
I would never think to allow Hick to read my stuff. The Pony is only interested in science fiction. Genius demands to read it if it's about HIM. I've got about seven pieces I'm working on right now. My back-to-school routine is settling down, so I'm cautiously optimistic that my offerings will start pouring out of here soon like bats out of our middle-school attic at dusk.
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Linda,
There was nothing very interesting about the list itself. It was not a cry for help, a FIND ME list. I had forgotten where I stashed it.