A few months ago, I got a very sweet email from Ann. (Ann doesn’t send any other kind of email, to be honest. They are always sweet and thoughtful and full of wisdom.) She said, “You should write a memoir.”
I nodded my head and wrote something back like, “okay, sure,” and then promptly forgot about writing a memoir. Because I am not a memoirist. And then I started writing LOST AND FOUND, and editing LOST AND FOUND, and looking at covers for LOST AND FOUND (I have a cover! I do! I set it as the wallpaper of my phone, and I’m going to share it with you SOON. Ish.), and I stopped writing here.
And I miss you guys. I don’t know if I’m a memoirist, and I always find what I write here to be either a little too jokey or a little too maudlin to be taken seriously (by myself, a very serious person), but I miss blogging. I miss talking with you. I always feel guilty about blogging because I don’t understand why any of you come and read here, and then I feel like I need to give you presents because you’re doing it just to be nice, so sometimes I try to stop out of deference to you. (Yes, I am a nutball.)
I don’t know how many people I have met at blogging conferences who, when I tell them I blog “for fun,” they look at me sideways. These are usually marketing people in nice suits with shiny hair, and I’m rumpled or wrinkled and my hair is always a mess at conferences. ALWAYS. It’s beautiful at home, but once I step out into the world, it goes a little bananas. If you’ve met me in person, I’m sorry, I look better from far away. As for the wrinkles, those are true blue. I’m a wrinkled human being.
What happened was that I got a little bit more attention for writing here based on various factors, and then I started to hate blogging. And I hated that I hated blogging. Everything I have in my career right now is because of blogging, so it seemed kind of like hating my mentor or my best friend behind her back. “Bitch,” I’d whisper-giggle. “Know nothing. Blogging? Honestly.” But I hated it the same way I hated it when my parents would tell one of their friends about me, and then I’d have to talk about myself blargh. I love to talk about myself except when people are paying attention. (Yes, I am a nutball.) I got scared, and I’ve been trying to put a cover over this whole site for a while now, trying to figure out a way to be less me.
And I didn’t quite know what to do, or who to talk to about it. Everyone here knows that the first rule of Blogging Club is we don’t talk about Blogging Club, mostly because people look at us sideways and think we’re narcissistic weirdos.
I miss being a narcissistic weirdo with you. I miss telling you about this lame epiphany I had about, like, my chipped toenail, and how that represented my inner child looking for love. (I promise to never talk about my feet, though. Did you know I hate my feet? They are Frodo chic, size eight and a half.) I miss knowing about your lives and your insights. The other day I wrote out a jokey blog post on a piece of paper, and then I recycled it. Just to get it out of my system. I was like, “I don’t have time to draw/write this up! I don’t have time to post it!” Except that I thought about it for days, days I could have spent writing something else.
I don’t know if I’m ever going to write a memoir, but I’m going to write here more, for fun, about nothing of consequence. I’m going to let myself off the hook and let this place be what it was for me last year, just a place to be my most me, more than I am anywhere else. I know it will be mixed up with me talking about my book(s) and maybe freelance articles, too, but if I get carried away or stressed out or even more crazy than I normally am, or scared of what you will think, or scared of saying the wrong thing, could you gently steer me back to this place where I find myself this Saturday morning, to where I realize that the only point of any of this is because I enjoy it?
If I stop enjoying it, I’ll stop. And then I’ll probably come back again. Because I miss you guys, and because I’m a memoirist, at least the blogging kind. This is what I do. You accepted that a long time ago. Now it’s my turn.