Blog number 419 **** 18 September, 2010
I have been writing in the Blog for several years now - how many, I really don't know and it's a lot of trouble for me to mouse-click back to the beginning to find out, so let's just go with "several years," ok?. It's really not important anyhow. The number of years I've been doing this is not important, I mean. The entries themselves are important, of course. That goes without saying.
Where was I? Oh, yes. For all of those years up until a week or so ago, I just wrote and let whoever happened upon the Blog entries, read them. This consisted mostly of my immediate family. I never pushed them upon the innocent. I was comfortable with what I wrote, knowing full well that I would be forgiven for lapses of interesting or humorous entries. I am a close relative, after all. I am supposed to be forgiven such things.
I had some "business" cards made up with my Blog address and my e-mail address upon them, along with an instruction sentence on the back, and my occupation as "writer." I have started passing these out to some people I have met - waitresses, librarians and such. I also gave to my two sons stacks of them to pass out to their friends and I appropriated the Internet addresses of my wife's friends and sent them a link to my Blog. In other words, I have offered of myself the obvious belief that what I write has value.
Back in the days of "you can read it if you want to," I wrote excitedly for the most part, because I love to share interesting and humorous happenings, writings, and thoughts - all with no fear of condemnation, shame, or imprisonment. Now that I am in the "would you read this, please?" mode, I find myself being tentative about what I write. It's almost like getting up in front of an audience at a club and trying to be both funny and interesting. Before, writing was relaxing. Now it's scary.
Why am I telling you this? Because I learned a long time ago that if I tell the truth about what "is," I won't have to tell that truth with signals from my body. It's like if I find myself embarrassed, I can either say, "I am embarrassed," or I can say nothing and blush and stammer and sweat, and let my body tell the story. So this entry is my truth about what "is," and hopefully I can return to that golden yesterday of contented and satisfying writing.
I feel better already.
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