Writing has always been a way for me to put my cards on the table without anyone having to see my face or my hair or the quirky clothes I’m wearing. It’s that “on the Internet no one knows your a dog” cartoon existence. When you are a print journalist, or a blog writer, or a corporate writer, or a speech writer, appearances don’t matter. What you hope matters and resonates with someone who falls upon your words is that they are worth revisiting and that there’s some there there. Back to that sense of muchness, too.
Part of me clings to that vulnerability of bravery and daring only a kid should own. The added benefit of being north of 50 means that I have my wits about me when I release the inner child and bare my soul in my daily blog post, or come up with a response on a corporate blog. But when I write and edit articles for a newsletter that is all about the back-of-the-house business of running a doctor’s office, the kid stuff gets a time out. The same goes for being a wife and a mother. There’s the business of running a family, making sure the kids’ homework is done correctly, signed off, that lunch track cards are loaded, the tires are inflated, the laundry is done. They know and love the wildly wacky woman I can be when we’re at home cutting loose with some fun music, talking to the cats, or singing solos in the shower. Of course. Home is where your expected to be exactly who you are.
I blog because no matter how dry the work might be, there’s this longing to show my humanity and to connect with yours.