Spouting off while listening to Pink Floyd

I worry sometimes, wonder sometimes, if I’ve become too transparent. Or maybe it’s that I fear I’ve allowed myself to seem too transparent?

I’m not sure, but I know I’m clouded with uncertainty tonight.

I don’t know, I’m not sure what this feeling I have is, but it’s oddly similar to that of not feeling I have a voice. Which is odd, considering.

Today my stats show I’ve gone up more than a million ranks in the last couple months on my other bloggie (the other one, not this one; this one still gets minimal traffic, probably 5% of what the other blog gets, if that). Today, I was 87,000th, out of millions and millions and millions. That means a fuck of a lot of people are reading it. Like, a lot. And it scares the living shit out of me.

I started this, this whole blogging thing, to try and rediscover my voice. Now I’ve accidentally discovered I have people tuning in daily to see what wheels are spinning in my head this time around. Surreal isn’t even the word for it.

I wanted to be read. More than anything, I wanted to be read. I wanted that feeling every writer wants; that of knowing they’ve become a reader’s guilty pleasure… a stolen moment on a bus, hiding in the office when work needs doing but a page desperately needs reading.

Recently, people have started telling me this is what I’ve become to them. It blows my mind. I can’t express it to anyone. No one I know, I don’t think, really can get what’s going on in my mind right now. There’s a lot. A lot is going on.

I’m not complaining. This is what I thought I wanted. I’m just not sure, not right now.

There are moves I suspect I can make… things I can say or do to push myself in a more professional direction with this gig. And I can’t even begin to express to you just how much every part of my body is holding me back from going there. I’m just so terrified of being successful.

Before all that, though, comes this regret I feel right now. This regret for having opened a can of worms I think I might never be able to close. A can I sometimes wish I could not only close but walk the fuck away from.

And it’s my fault. I started it. I was honest. I put myself down on pages in a rather searing and open way, interspersed with humour and strangeness that only freaks like me can muster. I was entertaining and, every now and then, even insightful. And I was open about it, not only with you, the public, but with my friends and family and now even my lover. They all read this shit.

And the irony is, by having so much voice, I now feel doomed to have none. I have no secret outlet… Writing is my great pressure valve. I do this, and I swear to god, you can see steam rising off me. Everything comes out, an emotional enema. It frees me.

But I worry, I worry that those around me get to read so much into who I am, and I never, ever get the same revelations in return. I feel like I live under glass now, a fucking specimen for all to watch and read and see. And I’m dysfunctional; I can’t write for myself. I need to put it up and put it on display. If I don’t, it’s like it doesn’t really exist. Now and then there’s something that doesn’t make it up, but most of the time, stuff does.

I get token emails and sound bites from those I care about. I sort of know what’s going on, but I’m ultimately unplugged. Or I feel that way. In reality, it’s just normal relationships among normal people, being conducted in a nice, normal way. But I’m not nice nor normal nor understated. I hang it all out to dry. It’s almost better when it’s for strangers.

I was all right when I knew a few people read me, and even when I knew they got something out of it. But seeing my stats going through the roof, getting emails that tell me how important I am in their daily routine, or whatever the fuck it is that’s going on now, is just weirding me out.

It’s all happening so fast. Doubling every month for the last three months. It’s not like I’ve been trying my hand at this for years, this is all within a few short months, all this notice. It’s so weird. So not what I’m accustomed to, she of the book in the stairwell during high school lunches… this is all so new and foreign. And I can't even begin to tell you how fucking pretentious this posting feels, in some ways, while feeling so goddamned heartwrenching in others. I've got half a mind to hit "delete."

I fear it becoming more than this. I’m scared. I’m scared of everybody knowing everything about me. On the one hand, I know it’s illogical. On the other, I know it’s in danger of being true. What it is, is a delicate balancing act.

And I don’t know why it bothers me so much that everyone I know reads my shit, but tonight, it bothers me. A lot. I wish the playing ground was more even. It’s not. Everyone has a voice, and it seems I’m the only one using mine.

Bah, I don’t know. I just don’t get any of this, some days. Why the hell so many people tune in, check it out, and dig what I say. I’m a normal chick who has her fucked-up, insecure days, who dabbles in depression and delirium, and who struggles to pay the rent like everyone else. It just freaks me out, since I guess I’m the one doing the looking into the mirror. I see reality, my reality.

I’m just really, really wishing I had a crystal ball. Wishing I could see how I’d deal with being a writer for a living. Right now, I’m not even sure I can handle it. Oh, these idyllic fantasies of living the writing life. Yeah, well, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. It’s a lonely life, writing. You’re either living life or you’re observing it. It’s pretty hard to do both, and as a writer, you need to err on the side of observing, or you’ll never really have the time to do what you need to do.

Oh, sure, we got great stories. That’s what we’re about. We can live a fraction of the life you live, and still walk away with more stories, if only because we’re trained to watch. We catch the details, make the observations, and therein lies the story.

Right now, the writing life feels lonely. I have friends, a good relationship, etc, but it all feels a little empty and off. I wish it didn’t, but it does, and right now, there’s no happy ending stirring in me. I can spot foreshadowing a mile away, but when it’s my own life, no such luck.

I don’t even know what my point is anymore. I feel like I’m living in a bubble, under the microscope, with no ability to really express what I want in an anonymous way, as just some voice in the darkness, and I’m feeling condemned unto myself.

Oddly, I’m not depressed. I’m just very, very aware of this fear and apprehension I have, and the fact that this “hey, go follow your dreams” bit is on a limited shelf-life and I really got to get my fucking act together if this is, in fact, that dream of mine. Now that it’s within reach, or at least more readily dreamable, I’m terrified it’s not right for me.

So, I guess my point is, I just don’t know. Not now. Not anymore.

And no, I still haven’t heard back from that magazine, which tells me that’s one thing I don’t want… the waiting and the powerlessness. I need another plan.

Ah, another conundrum. Perfect.