My sister and I, we chat between those long download waits. I tell her about my new blog addy, she peeps in and then tells me how amazed she is at all this writing coming out of nowhere. Writing about anything, is what she calls it. She wonders how I can do it. She says she’d have privacy issues if it were her.
And now that I have blabbed about that conversation to the www, it got me thinking. Yes, I actually thought about it, the act causing brief, spastic little twists in my brain. Do people who read this blog think I am the sum of what I write? A narcissist with a keyboard, mirroring my image onto the screen and spewing it out to the world (And does the world reflect it back, like a faithful, reactive audience)? I must admit the supposition disarms me.
I don’t think that I write up the whole entire girl that I am and offer it up for random consumption. No, really, I don’t. This is not the whole entire me. No, this is just bits and bytes that may be a smattering of facts, events actual or taken out of time, or maybe truth fictionalized and spun into some sense of order, into easily digestible, neat little entries.
Take a real life person, that sleep-deprived girl you see in line at the coffee shop, the quiet lady clutching a magazine in the doctor’s office, the frazzled mom pushing a grocery cart—that could be me. Away from all this. A random person, like anyone else.
And like most anyone else, I have another life, a private one that will not see the backlight of a computer screen, and the stories of that life are not splayed out here for all to see.
I just wanted to say: I write what I will, and I keep what I must.