Promise not to tell...

As an amateur writer, I worry that I just won't have enough time to keep a blog up, that it shouldn't be a priority when I've got a struggling marriage, a difficult child, and a mentally-challenging, full-time (paying) job. I only have so many fucking hours in a day, and as it is, I struggle to make the best use of them.

It's how my soul speaks. And how my head listens.

I also worry about sharing my innermost personal details on the internet...the honesty it takes, and the intricate web that must be woven to protect myself from being "found out."

But writing...

It doesn't really matter what I write about...it just needs to come from within. And if it doesn't, it stagnates. It pools in the base of my bowel and blackens until it rots. I'm pretty sure it's the root cause of my depressive episodes. Because I damn well know it's the muse of my bipolar risings from the depths. When I stop writing, I stop feeling. And when I start again, I sometimes feel too much.

So, I'm coming back slowly. As I consider what I want my website to be. I'd like to figure out how simply to build my own strong following. And that takes resilience...a lot of writing and a lot of networking. And then - once the tribe is built...it takes a lot of responsibility and care to keep it going...like any relationship.

That's where I've sort of fallen on my face. I get close to the peak...and then I freak out. What if I fail? What if it doesn't work? The commitment it will take is sometimes overwhelming. Commitment scares me so much that I can't even fucking spell the word...I have to spellcheck it every god-damned time!

Eventually, if I whisper sweetly enough and often enough, I know you'll tell me. You'll tell me what you want to hear. You'll let me in. You'll answer my call with a sigh and a resigned need. And the fire will re-ignite.

That's how the writer/reader relationship works.

I hold the match, but it's useless without the friction you provide to light it.

I write a lot for myself. I've got journals filled with random, fragmented thoughts. And maybe that's what you want. Maybe that's what I've got to offer. My random, fragmented thoughts. The voyeur in you just wants a piece of that. And if I give it to you...if I lay myself bare, well now...there's the real fear, right?

What if you reject it? What if you reject me?

It's always possible. But, I think I just need to remove everything in the middle and begin writing directly to YOU - instead of my husband (even if the intention is veiled...I always know he's reading) or myself or some random, faceless crowd. Just you. It's much more intimate. Much more "hush, I'm telling you a secret...please don't tell...."

And that's where I do my best work anyway. In the dark, with a glass of wine, the quiet, and a slightly bitten lip, as I consider just how much information is too much. I guess with you, it's never too much, right? In fact, with you, too much is just right.

That's what I love about sex-blogging. TMI just doesn't exist. In this community, we just rip the fucking covers off and show our nakedness like paint-smeared warriors - "Fuck you, prudish, hypocritical world! We're out here...and we're writing about all the things you say we shouldn't, but secretly read in the cover of darkness." Because that might be you, too. You might be one of those hypocrites. And if you are, you need me. You might be disgusted by what I have to say, but you need to read it.

You might also be like me. Maybe what I write validates you and your experience.

No matter who you are or why you come here, I need to admit that I've let my readers down. I've let them slip away into the night. And now I want you all back. But, on my terms. I don't want to write only what an audience deems worthy. I want to write the truth. My truth.

So hear this, as I whisper through the wires...I'm going to tell you a secret....a whole string of secrets...

Do you promise not to tell?