They say every great blogger is simply a failed writer. I wonder though, what does that say about the not great bloggers? The ordinary bloggers? The mundane bloggers? Me?
“Fuck blogging, you need to write novels!”
It was a compliment that makes every blogger glow. A compliment that was said to me after my sister and her bestie shared the experience of reading my blog, and a box of Kleenex.
“It brought tears to my eyes”, she confessed to me. Oddly enough, it had done the same to me.
When I re-read my blogs, a thing I do shortly after posting them, I experience the same feelings I imagine each of you experience. The sadness, the joy, the pain, the laughter. As I’m writing them though, I simply write down the narrative that is nearly always playing through my head, forgetting that people actually read this thing.
Yesterday though, I had some serious re-thought about what I had written. I had told some pretty real things. I had told exactly what I was thinking. I had told that I had reached out to people that weren’t my husband… and my husband had the ability to read, every, single, line.
For a long time I didn’t worry about my husband reading my blog. It was just another of my interests that didn’t interest him. Aka, it was stupid.
Then I wrote Miranda’s story….
You see, if you’ve been too hmm, unknowing as you followed along, you might not have caught on but, Miranda’s story is mine. It’s not fictional in the slightest. Trust me, I tried that line. The hubby wasn’t buying it. But, he wasn’t really upset. Just made it a point to let me know that he knew I was writing it.
And with that, came the death of the story.
How could I sit back and write about how I couldn’t kiss my husband because for so long it only reminded me of how different it was than kissing my ex? How could I let him read those words, knowing that it truly bothered him that I never wanted to kiss him?
As you all know, I can’t blog if I can’t be real. And the truth was, that I loved my husband. I loved him so much that I couldn’t bear the thought of him hearing straight from the horses mouth that I had fallen in love with my ex. I had grown to love my husband over the years. My ex, I had fallen for him the second his lips met mine. I just didn’t realize it until a good decade later. Some call it stubbornness. I lean more towards lack of intelligence. But none the less, my husband was reading every line.
So I stopped writing Miranda’s story. I never got to the part where I cried myself to sleep wishing I had never left my ex. I also, never got to the part where I felt so deeply connected to my husband that I truly couldn’t imagine my life with anyone else. I never got to the end, and I never will. The purpose of the story was because I needed to know, once and for all, how I really felt. But now I know, and continuing the story would simply be redundant.
For a long time it bothered me that my husband had read my blog. Silly right? Who doesn’t want their other half caring about them enough to delve into the one place where she keeps her most intimate thoughts?
That’d be me!
But then I realized it didn’t really matter. So I had loved someone before him. He was twelve years older than me, married before me, had a family before me… surely, he had fallen in love before me. And if he couldn’t handle that I had before him, well, that wasn’t really so much my problem.
If he wanted to read my blog, he’d just have to deal with knowing more than he probably ever wished to know. And, if he couldn’t accept it… well, than in all reality, he couldn’t accept me.
At the end of the day, the strong arms that I felt safe in were my own. And most the time, those arms come in the form of my blog. My blog where I pretended to write a fictional story, knowing I probably couldn’t write fiction to save my life.
Sure, the sound of sitting in a sophisticated corner office in my house with french doors slightly open as the breeze caressed my hair and my fingers gingerly tapped across a type writer expelling the plot of the next best seller has crossed my mind a time or two. But, I didn’t have french doors installed yet, or a corner office… or even a type writer.
I guess my ordinary mundane blog will have to do, because in my world… the best writers aren’t the ones sitting on your book shelves.