Why do I do this?

I have a friend with whom I have an on-line friendship. We IM each other from time to time and read each other’s blogs/journals. She has twin toddlers as well and by now I am quite sure she knows I am talking about her! We have had some of the same experiences in raising our children and some very different ones and we both love books and writing. She has “said” (“said” is in quotes because the fact that our conversations are done via Instant Messaging means I more accurately put “typed”, but that looks so awkward. Yeah, and a laborious explanation is not awkward… whatever.) She has said a few things with which I have disagreed and I know I have said some things that have made her roll her eyes. This is why I think we are friends; we both understand we each have the right ideas for our different families.

That stated, once, during an IM conversation, I mentioned I might have something in an on-line magazine soon, and how I was just so thrilled about that. She asked if I wanted to be a Writer when I grew up. I responded that I am never going to grow up, so I don’t worry about it. Kidding! No, I said, yes, and blogging/journaling on line is a way for me to practice and work things out. She said that she must be the only blogger who doesn’t really want to be published.

Because I read too much into thing, I felt diminished right away. I know is was not her intent by her remark, but I instantly thought, “Gosh, am I just another Carrie Bradshaw wannabe and am I a hopeless case at that? Does she think I am some kind of loser for trying to be a stay at home mother/writer and wanting to join the other 15 million stay at home mothers/writers floating around the universe? She must see me as a sad sack, I am a sad sack…boo hoo I’ll never do anything worthwhile…” and then I ate a whole pint of Cherry Garcia. No, actually that really got me thinking, “Why do I post my little roller coaster on line? Why do I need to blog? Do I still feel a lack of attention? Do I still think I can write? Do I really feel I am interesting, or do I do it more for myself and to have a record of these early, crazy days, like somekeep a Baby Journal?”

Then I started reading Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott. A friend gave me a copy, just out of the blue, because she is such a sweet person, and after I had read a few dozen pages, I felt that Anne was speaking to ME. She writes about becoming a writer, about her journey and she asks the same questions I have been asked and that I ask myself – why does one write and for whom?

Here is a quote from the book:

The thrill of seeing oneself in print…provides some sort of primal verification: you are in print; therefore you exist. Who knows what this urge is all about, to appear somewhere outside yourself, instead of feeling stuck inside your muddled but stroboscopic mind…You can get so much attention without having to actually show up somewhere. There are many obvious advantages to this. You don’t have to dress up, for instance, and you can’t hear them boo you right away.

Hearing the boos and hisses much later is what I love about Blog Spot. If I see a comment that is totally and unnecessarily wounding, I can delete it. If someone feels they need to call me up and pour vitriol and poison down the line, and ignore me for months, fine by me. BUT, I wrote what I wrote for a reason; I needed to vent, to explain, to create, to try, to fail and midstream heckling most likely would have stopped me in my literary tracks. That’s the magic of on-line for me.

There is also the fact that if I wrote it, and posted it, I can prove I had the idea first. I hate hate hate it when people steal my ideas, or seem to not listen to me, then turn around and try to pass it off as their own. I recently read something that another mommy blogger wrote about an experience that she made out to be unique to her situation. The fact that I have an entry all about the exact same thing (and I even recognized a few of my phrases) posted months ago. This settles my mind. It is totally obvious that her last week was my last June, so I’m okay with that. Instead of seething over the intellectual theft, I can reflect on how so many new mothers go through so many of the same ordeals/trails/experiences, and in the same order too.

But what really made me sit up and look around was the “primal verification” thing. Anne writes that writing is its own reward, which I find to be true for me, and that the attention one can receive as a by-product is a very happy accident. According to the Site Meter I added to this journal, I have had several thousand hits since the middle of December. Part of my mind thinks, “My, so many!” The other, more real part, thinks, “Why so few? This is good stuff here!” Yes, I admit to being hungry for attention and needy as far as an audience is concerned, and that is part of me being me, and I happen to like that about myself. I like it a lot, actually, and I have made some good friends through being brazen and honest. I have lost one friend from speaking my mind, and another potential friendship never really happened for kind of the same reason. (Well, it was more that in life there are the members of the audience and the players on the stage. I like to be on stage and I really can share the spotlight very well. Just ask the gorgeous woman who gave me the Anne Lamott book – she and I have frolicked on stage together a few times. BUT this other person needed to keep me firmly as an admirer and quietly in my seat. After a year or two of this, I decided, nope, it’s boring listening to her gassing on about her “fabulous” life. The MOT doesn’t need to be put in her place; she can be pretty cool. And Nick Rhodes thinks I have lovely skin too, so, ha.)

So the next time I IM my lovely on-line pal, I will ask her if she’s read Bird by Bird. If she has, groovy! I can let her know someone else has explained why I am doing this writing thing, and has explained it well. If she hasn’t, I suggest it. After all, Anne is the one who has written so eloquently about why someone like me feels compelled to spill their guts on paper, not me, and I don’t want to try to pass off her ideas as my own. ‘Coz I hate that.