Sometimes a real world friend who is aware of my blog might observe conversationally, "Your blog is very personal, isn't it?" and I hear implied criticism, as if I am putting myself out there in an unseemly way, and it stings somehow. So then I come home and impulsively close my blog for all of—what?—twelve hours. And then I say Fuck It and open it up again, resigned once more to the fact that this is what it means to have a writing life: To overshare, to explore what happens in emotional terms, to say this is what it feels like to be alive in my skin, to be afraid, to be imperfect, to love.
So my blog is open again. I feel the weight of it sometimes, all I have revealed, all the stories that can be read between the lines, if anyone cares. Fortunately, hardly anyone cares, and so I will keep going, pretending that despite being public, this space is actually quite intimate, a sharing that takes place between me and a handful of souls who visit regularly, and leave their calling cards in the comments box, and are always so generous of spirit and deeply kind.
Thank you, friends who visit me here. My son is home for the week. And it is heaven.