Warning: long, inner-angst post below.

So, next month will be the two year anniversary of this blog (holy frijoles! (does it count if you take a multi-month break in the middle?))  and I’m torn.  I greatly enjoy the people I’ve gotten to know and enjoy a place to talk, vent, whatever about stuff, but I feel as though the original goal of the blog hasn’t been achieved.

My goal has never been, nor will be, to be a large blog or whatever.  My goal was to get more comfortable putting ME out there.  You’ll notice I write under a psuedonym, so clearly that goal was somewhat limited from the outset.  But, I do know that if I were writing under my name, and thus directly googlable, as opposed to requiring some minimum form of advanced querying to i.d. me, I’d probably completely silence myself.

I started here after a disastrous attempt to write a novel.  I outlined that novel (a mystery) and read over a dozen books on plot and character, etc.  I even have a couple books on poisons and guns (which will probably convict me if anyone I know dies under mysterious circumstances).  Can I tell you, it was the most gawd-awful thing on the planet, particularly once I started with the actual first draft.  So I stepped back and decided that the problem was that I had decided I should write a mystery simply because I enjoy them so much, when none of the ideas for stories running through my head had ever been a mystery.  From there, I figured that I also hated my main character because despite her tragic circumstances (all the books tell you that the character must have challenges beyond the immediate plot so she was under extremely trying cirucmstances) she was flat and uninteresting.  And that, I decided, was due to the fact that I couldn’t figure out what she really cared about because if I could set that out it might reveal to much about what I cared about.  Characters are not necessarily or even usually portraits of oneself, but for my first protaganist, I was sticking close to home.

So, having discovered blogs, I thought, why not?  This will force me to get ME out there and all my twisted thoughts.  Once I’m comfortable sharing my darkest fears, I’ll be able to write a character’s darkest fears. Except, I haven’t really put myself out there. 

I think some of this, if I can over-psycho-analyze for a moment, is due to moving a LOT when I was young (I went to seven schools between K and 5th grade).  If I’d been a military brat, it would’ve been easier, surrounded by a lot of other kids in a similar state.  But I wasn’t.  I was the kid of a single mom who was trying to figure out what she wanted to do which led to: going to grad school; doing an internship; looking for better jobs and leaving jobs because of  asshole bosses.   

Anyway, my way of coping was to always try to fit in by looking for the thing I had in common with the group and running with it, even if it wasn’t my favorite thing.  As a result, I’ve ended up being a bit like what people used to accuse Bill Clinton of in the 90s, of being driven by wanting people to like me and not exclude me.  

This tendency has an impact on my writing (among other things) in that I write with fear that I might alienate someone  or piss someone off.  So I don’t write about the inner me — I write surface and fluff.   On the other hand, surface and fluff is often, at one level, what helps explain the day to day that connects me with the people out in the blogosphere. Blagh.  I go around in circles.

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