I’ve been in a bit of funk lately. Usually I can blame it on pms, but in the absence of that, I’m looking for something to assign this feeling of raw vulnerability to. I think part of it is this time of year. It’s more than just gloomy weather, or the anxiety that comes with summer’s end and the pressures of what is supposed to be a productive time; with no more days off or Jewish holidays that gobble up most of September. The leaves are changing, and for me, it’s signifying some internal changes too.
The novel that I started writing over three years ago has reached a certain, exciting stage. With that, I am experiencing a feeling of both unnerving trepidation and boundless possibility. I didn’t know this about myself, but I might be slightly superstitious, so I’m not going to get into it here, except to say that it marks the close of one very long chapter, and the start of a new one. Not so coincidentally, I’m feeling like my blog is also at an intersection of sorts. When I started writing it, as I did my novel, it was because I had stuff to say, and enjoyed doing so. I didn’t think about whether it was going to grow, if anyone was going to read it, or how they would feel when doing so. If I did, I probably would never have started it at all. Worry and fear of what others might think paralyzes a writer. Our honesty, our life experiences and tribulations are our life-blood and I don’t think I would know how to write without those things to draw from. Would I have anything to say? I admire writers of science fiction, fantasy, or mysteries, who can invent worlds that appear remote and unrelated to their own personal lives. It took getting to this stage that I’m at, where I actually have some readers - after a lonely journey of writing in a vacuum – to recognize that I am simply not that kind of writer.
And with that realization, comes a bunch of conflict. This is new territory for me.
People I am close to, including family members, close friends, and exes too, are reading about me. Not just the blog, a public journal of sorts, but my novel too, which is semi-autobiographical and a window into what I call my life “pre-blog,” although it is fictionalized and significant parts of it completely imagined. Exposing myself, as well as my past, was not my initial intention, plan, and nowhere near the goal. Exposure is what I’d call a bi-product of finding my voice, my self, as a writer. My mother is reading my book now, for the first time. She is experiencing what her daughter “experienced” during a difficult time in her life, and in a way, I am reliving it with her. When she called me, after reading page one, I reacted defensively when she said: “It says ‘fucking’ three times on the first page! Is that allowed??” “Mom,” I said, “It’s a book. It’s fiction. Anything is allowed! And by the way, there is actual fucking that comes later in the book, so deal with it.” You could say the subtext to that is: “Your daughter (or the character in the book whom you identify with as your daughter), has sex!”
This happened around the same time that I went on a few dates with guys who know about my blog after befriending me on Facebook, and it’s raised some questions. When I started the blog back in March, I didn’t have many dates lined up. I was post break up #1 with my cub, and as I said above, I really wasn’t thinking anyone was going to read it, so censoring or being “mindful” of a potential future boyfriend’s feelings was not a consideration. My ex-cub, who I’ve known since I started writing my novel over three years ago, and my blog too, was (and I believe still is) one of the first to read my posts. When we were together, I blogged about other things – our relationship was kept private (although that limited my subject matter significantly, and probably diluted the blog’s “brand”). And now that we are broken up, I am careful not to say anything hurtful about him (although truthfully he hasn’t given me any reason to). Nor has he ever taken offense by anything I’ve written. He encourages me to keep going, and said, “You’re a writer. You have to write what feels right, and I don’t want to ever thwart that. I’d rather you write shit about me, than not write.”
Good man.
But more than that, he is a writer too, a songwriter. He understands the process. So for a guy like him, my being a writer, an expressionist, is not a threat. It’s an appealing quality. And, he can keep up with what I’m doing. I wish I had the same advantage. Lucky him. Or maybe not. Because on the flip side, what is going to happen, I wonder, when I do enter into a new relationship? Am I going to blog about it? How could I not? I know I am going to hesitate, knowing it might hurt him, but in the end, I’m guessing the choice is going to be to write the truth.
So now that the blog has grown, along with me, I find myself single, dating, and wondering what new potential mates might think should they read it. I can’t control what they read and what they Google, especially when they Google 'Cougel.' I mean, should a guy that is interested in me be my Facebook friend, where he can easily link to my blog? Probably not, right? That’s a whole other question. Friends have advised me, “Don’t tell a guy you go on one date or three with about your blog, because then they will know everything about you, more than you know about them. And there will be less for them to ask you and discover over time.” (Although you could say that the guy should be pleased that he doesn’t have to guess what I’m thinking). This makes sense, and I don’t disagree with it. But what am I supposed to do, when being a writer has become so much a part of who I am? Should I hide the fact that I blog altogether, when it gives me so much joy? Should I hide the fact that I wrote a novel? Because when people ask me what its about, if I answer honestly, it immediately reveals that I was once married, for how long, and that it didn’t go so well. (For those of you rolling your eyes right now, saying: “Stop over-thinking!,” my response would be, “That would be like trying to tell a straight dude to like guys.”)
I think for some women, doing the above is easy. But I’m not sure I’m built that way. It poses a conflict for me. I have an awful poker face, and am by nature an open “over-sharer.” I can try, but it doesn’t feel right.
I talked to a fellow blogger today. His blog is extremely popular and he is not anonymous. He is married with children and writes about being a dad. I told him how people who find my blog via Twitter etc. don’t know my real name, and I love writing to that audience, because I’m free. And because they don’t know me, they respond positively. He said it shouldn’t matter, to reference my real name. “It’s time for Clark Kent to become Superman,” he said. I laughed (I don’t totally get the analogy), but when I said, “But it might affect my dating life. I’m single. What if I want to write about a date I had, because it’s funny or worth sharing? Am I risking sabotaging my dating life for my professional one, my passion?” He didn’t laugh in response. “Dude. That blows,” he said. “And not in a good way.”
I’d love to hear your input on this one - especially if you’re a writer too. I know some “single NYC dating” bloggers who write under pseudonyms. There’s a reason for it. And what do memoirists do? Not the ones who are married, but the ones who are single and conscious of how they project themselves and what information they are divulging? Should they not give a shit?
