I have a tendency to vilify all my dear readers in my head. I have a tendency to imagine you as perfect grammarians, who judge the misplaced comma. Who scoff at my writing attempts, an audience filled with drooling, cruel monsters who are amazingly better than me. So sometimes I find it hard to blog, because my friends stop being friends and turn into critics. My family stops being family, and become the susurrus of shadows in the dark, whispering that I am not good enough.
In real life I know my friends aren’t cruel and my family aren’t sinister beings, but my writerly mind gets away from me sometimes, morphing everything in my world into a self-affirming doubts. So I take breaks from blogging, preferring the safety of writing in notebooks or apps that only I have the password too. I like the tangible qualities of paper–the incendiary quality. I can burn everything If I feel the shadows getting too close. I favor the delete button, instead of the publish button. It is a power of cowardice. A power of yanking the sheets tighter over my head.
And my worst critic–myself–gets reincarnated in every person who reads this blog. At least in my head. So I guess I should apologize to you, dear reader. If for nothing else than imagining you as a fanged, drooling lump of an incredible writer who looks down at little ole me. You probably don’t drool. Maybe.
It would be easier if I didn’t know my audience. I am flattered every time a friend tells me that they enjoy my blog, that they follow it. Invariably they are people who I admire like Shannon and Damien, Ivan and Arianna, Kashi and Mom and Dad. And I should be even more flattered by this, but then I picture their faces while I am writing and I don’t want to let them down. I don’t want to make errors like comma splices, I don’t want to use too much passive voice, or confuse my tenses like I am so often apt to do.
Maybe if I hand you a napkin I will feel better?