a small confession

I have to admit that blogging doesn’t come naturally to me. Writing does — my studio is littered (if that’s an appropriate word) with various journals, scraps of paper and lists of ideas and things to do. My mind is constantly hearing snatches of text that must be written down immediately so I don’t forget them. It terrifies me to think that I might miss some inspiration that might serve as a key for something that I’ve yet to unlock. I’m someone who carries a small notebook with her everywhere.

In other words, I’m receptive to words. But blogging is different.

The whole concept of having a journal online, in which anyone can read at any time, is a strange one. In some ways, I’ve struggled with defining the perimeters of this blog. This blog began as a journal to share my creative process as well as the process of publishing. Now it seems to serve as a way to share art and work-related news.

The times I’ve yearned to share on this blog in a deeper way, I’ve felt constrained. Part of my reason for this is purely pragmatic: how do I know that an editor I might work with one day will read something I’d rather they didn’t? So I edit myself. Another part of me remembers coming across my mother reading my journal as a child. She did not acknowledge her transgression, as if she felt entitled to my most private thoughts. It was so shocking to me that I think this has influenced what I feel able to share on paper — even today, I am circumspect with my written word just in case it is read by someone I’d rather hadn’t (such as the above-mentioned imaginary editor). So I pick and choose, in the best editorial sense.

I know there are people who relish sharing their most intimate thoughts with strangers online, sometimes in a way that seems almost exhibitionist of candor. And I admit to reading blogs where this is the case, some of which I’ve been following for years, such as Christine Miller’s Swirlygirl or A Little Pregnant. These blogs bring to mind the serial stories of Victorian times, where you await the next update to discover what happened next — a fact not lost on literary agents and aspiring authors alike. Sometimes it seems like a fair portion of blogs are an exploratory committee for a more ambitious venture down the line. Neal Pollack’s Alternadad is one that comes to mind, much as I enjoy reading it. Others I like for the snark, such as the Comics Curmudgeon or Wonkette.

And where does this leave my blog here? The reality is that I don’t know. Sometimes I like updating it and find it a useful way to keep track of my various projects, to feel a sense of accomplishment. Other times — as in the past week, when I was immersed in new projects and my husband had a work deadline and my daughter had the stomach flu and a friend was in distress — a blog seems like yet another reponsibility to be resented, along with laundry and dishes. My attitude changes from day to day.

I suppose the bottom line is that my blog is the end result. I look upon it as a way to share what I’m doing as an artist, an author and designer. I’m fortunate that I’m not looking for a literary agent to discover me via my blog (I’m very happy with the one I have, thank you). I’m not using my blog to create material to be turned into a book eventually, though it helps me clarify my thoughts about work underway. There’s nothing more which will come of this blog, save as a record for myself of what I was doing once upon a time.

Perhaps that is enough.

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