So after the whole Plan A sound and fury I started thinking about telling more people about my blog than just my husband Mike, my sisters Rosie and Delish, my bff’s Pumpkin, Rainbow, Sunshine, and Jaz, and my shrink, Trish.
My mom had been asking to see it and I’d been withholding it for some time for fear of either effusive praise for my talents spiked with disappointment at my relatively meager financial success or a well-meaning constructive comment that would leave me stewing for days or weeks all the while knowing I shouldn’t be.
So when my mother mentioned wanting to see the blog the other day I sent it to her with some reluctance and the strictest, clearest of instructions to either say nothing or Only Nice Things. I give this instruction to all my readers as I find it puts them in the right frame of mind for appreciation.
And a few days later she sent me a text with Only Nice Things and I felt very, very, relieved. Note: I am aware that I am extremely fortunate to have a mother who cares about me and my work and my family and is alive and makes excellent soup, among other things. So hopefully when and if she reads this she will not be too offended that I have shared that I do fear her disapproval, as well as her approval. Which is my issue and I own it. And still. It came from somewhere. But that is another story.
So anyway back to me. The other reason I did not want to share this blog widely is that a lot of what I write is embarrassing because it’s so personal even though it is all, all of it, fiction. FICTION.
I mean yeah sure it is based on me and my thoughts and my stuff but I would like, never, get upset at my husband for shredding the romaine lettuce too small or wonder why children can so easily make friends with other children at the playground but their parents watching them stand around pretending not to notice the other one is there. Like, “I’m good, I don’t need any more friends, I don’t even notice you standing there I’m so busy with all the other cool people I already know and all the lucrative work I’m doing on my I-Phone at 2pm on a Tuesday wearing yoga pants, flip flops, and a dirty shirt with no bra. No pictures please I’m rolling incognito in my ironic trucker cap and top shelf sunglasses.”
So now that I guess we’ve established how fiction it all is, or isn’t, and I’ve mastered how to add a subscriber bar to the home page, web version only, I’m ready to go wide. I read a thing about how I need pictures and widgets and a bunch of other stuff and describe what this is and I should get a host or a feed but eff that. When and if I really need those things I’ll get them then.
And I also thought about getting hair extensions and liposuction and veneers and sunless tanning to have the right “look” for a big time blogger but I’m not doing any of that either. I’m gonna look like me, not the me I aspire to look like or the me I fear looking like. And I’m gonna sound like me, just me, not the me that’s really deep and got it all together or the one who’s a basket case stress case eating pineapple every night because she went off processed sugar, but the one who is living and breathing on this planet at this time, in this body, and is generally okay. That’s plenty. It’s enough. It’s what I got.