The Heart Of The Matter

I’ve been writing this blog for right around three years now. What started as a letter to the editor of a local newspaper has become, oddly enough, one of the two or three major items in my life. I never had any intention of writing anything after the letter, though I must admit, I loved seeing it in print the next day. I was fascinated by the emotions and comments other readers had about my beliefs on the subject I wrote in about. (It was a pro gay marriage piece). I created the blog only because I wanted my friends and family to see the letter and it was the easiest way to do that.

I think I continued writing simply out of loneliness. I had been recently divorced, living in Florida with nobody to talk to except my dog and the computer. I would write about politics, music and eventually, me. I found that if something was bothering me either personally or emotionally, I would be able to breathe a little easier once I released it into this virtual world we’ve all started to live in. It was relatively easy to get real personal on it because I was in a place where nobody knew me and the family and friends around the country couldn’t see me. I loved the anonymity of it all.

I started to branch out a little and told a few people I worked with and the few friends I had down there about it and would send them the link whenever I would post something new. It was pretty cool getting feedback from them about what I was writing about. There were very few posts that were personal so it was pretty easy listening to what they had to say. If I did get deep at all it would be about my youth or friends I had in Michigan. I would also write about the many years I lived in California. Again, they really couldn’t relate so I still maintained that anonymity factor.

When I moved to Michigan my writing seemed, at least to me, to make a natural progression. I started writing more and more about my feelings and got deeper and deeper into myself. I was still pretty much alone friend wise, I mean, I had a few friends and would come down to the Detroit area once or twice a month to do things with them but nobody that would ever read or comment about the blog. It was very safe and I spent a little over a year in Michigan staying in my little corner and writing while still in a hiding place that never made me answer to those that had been a part of my life all those years ago. I know this sounds ridiculous but since getting to know all these folks again I somehow feel like I almost have to please them with the things I write and that, literally, scares me to death.

I don’t write because I want to. I don’t write because I think I have something to say that matters. I write because I have to. Again, I know how outlandish that sounds but it’s so true. It’s my Xanax. I write to feel better. I get this nervousness in me or an excitement in me or any kind of feeling that can cause any kind of pressure and all I can think of at that time is that I have to get to my keyboard. It’s my crack as it were. Under most circumstances writing is not a pleasant time for me. When I do the digging into myself that I do it’s incredibly uncomfortable. I run through the entire gamut of emotions from anger to tears and even laughter. I can’t tell you how many times, while writing something, I have to stop for a minute and compose myself. It’s the type of pain that you feel when you have a bad tooth. You know it’s going to hurt if you put your tongue on it but you keep doing it anyways.

I have many readers that I do not know. I’ve received emails from literally all over the world talking about something I’ve posted. I always like the comments and the feedback. Once again, I would still be hidden away because I had no idea who was writing so if I wrote something they didn’t like it wouldn’t matter. Now that I’ve reconnected with all these people that I knew as a kid, the readership has grown accordingly. It also means that I now know many of those that read my stuff and who’s writing the comments.

There are many positive things about the whole idea of friends reading about me and my problems. There are also many things about it that I’m not so sure about. These friends are now seeing a part of me they’ve never seen before. I’m showing a vulnerability that is rarely shown by people in my age group. If someone reads my writing and hasn’t seen me in many years they must think I’m this totally morose character that rarely smiles. When I’m out and about with people that I know have read my stuff I can’t help but feel a bit odd. Almost like there are expectations. It really is a strange feeling.

I know this sounds like I think I’m some major voice, please believe me, I don’t. In fact, I have an incredibly hard time thinking anyone really cares about what I write about. It kinda freaks me out when someone tells me that something I’ve posted has touched him or her in any way. To think that I have created something that means something to others is something I’m not sure I can grasp. It simply makes no sense to me. I look and see that some folks have actually bought the books I’ve finished and it’s rather embarrassing. What could they possibly get out of my bitching and moaning about my life? This is one of those two plus two equal five type things. I just can’t figure it out and it sometimes truly overwhelms me.

So the obvious question is why post the things I do? It’s really hard to explain. I have to, I know that makes no sense but it’s like therapy to me. After I’ve written something and posted it the weight on my chest is much lighter. I can breathe again. It makes me feel real and whole and that’s something I need to do, feel real and whole.