there are no writers from the rafters any longer. they’re not leering anonymously at the reactions to their words. i hardly see any pseudonyms to hide behind. people want a face, an image, the person behind the fantasy, even if that in itself is another fantasy. we’ve all gotten accustomed to the ease of spying information and the thrill of uncovering something personal about somebody we either hate or admire.
the mysterious writer with no face but the polite mask that they bring to an occasional signing of their work, the old portrait in the back of their book, or the straight-cut across bangs of anne rice in a magazine, is dead.
and so it is with great reluctance that i surrendered to having a blog, because if you think about it, it is still anonymous.
the illusion of knowing somebody by seeing what they pin on a board, what pictures they take, their opinions, is just that – an illusion. you can only ever have an impression of somebody, even if you’ve known them personally in real life. i’m just one of those people who’s been burned and mostly prefers solitary confinement with close friends and family. it’s only my mind that creates the idea that people will “know things” about me a solid persistence enough to make me avoid crowds, people, new friends. it’s social anxiety developed where i used to work, where it was a game of thrones but with only emotional decapitation and definitely missing brilliant wisecracks from dwarves.
i’m actually pretty boring with nothing to hide. it’s the world that’s made me feel like a criminal for wanting to feel i have privacy.
anyway, writing… the urge to write and conceal myself within stories and characters. to just let them tell themselves, is a talent i feel i lost a long time ago. it’s a recipe i lost the instructions to, but not the ingredients. and everyday that i take care of the kids and deny that part of myself or am unable to bring it forth from me, it actually eats away my sense of self. to the point now that i feel like i’m in an out-of-body experience most of the time.
i have on my lap one of my 10-month-old twins, like a cuddling cat but more grabby, fascinated by the letters lit up on the mac. i’ve taught her how to growl when she’s frustrated, so every time i move her little paw away she does so.
i wonder if i can teach her to hiss, too.