Will you let me take our picture?
“Will you let me take our picture?”
“Sure? What should I do?”
“Just hold my hand.”
My head is a jumbled mess. I’ve been reading some amazing writing* online. Which is a blessing and a relief. Good writing always is. But it also reminds me that I’ve not been writing on this blog, not really.
To my mind, blogging and writing are different things. They often converge and that’s lovely. But not always. Me putting up a picture with a few words below it is blogging, barely. I wouldn’t call it writing. Â You might not agree with the distinction, but I’m loath to use language like “real” or “good” or heaven forbid, “literary” to describe the difference. Wait, wait, you’ll know (real) writing when you read it? I’m not sure that’s even true with Porn, so um, no on writing. You can see how I’m consoling myself, right?
Traipsing through my archives might make the point better. I’m not observing anymore. Let’s face it, every new blogger has a tank full of observations just waiting to get out. Crawling to the surface, it’s blood lust, to put the words on paper. But eventually, you run out of a steady stream of lovely turns of phrases and witty antidotes about standing in the grocery line at Whole Foods. Your three year old grows up. You sleep again, the words no longer playing bouncy house in your subconscious.
And you look at yourself in the mirror and realize, writers write. You’re not writing. You’re barely blogging. Maybe you’ve run your course, outlived your clever blog title? And those other writers keep writing. Good stuff. Great stuff. Maybe even pornographically literary stuff. Wait, real writer’s don’t use the word “stuff”. See, you can’t even find the word for words.
I know, put up a picture with a caption and call it a day.
I took a break last year from blogging. Writing has escaped me for years. It shows up in fits and starts, on this blog. Mostly ignored and that’s ok, because I’ve stopped using the term to describe myself. I don’t write enough anymore for it to count. But the break was a mistake.
I lasted less than a week before I was plotting a new blog. One about my relationship with IZ. I loved what I was writing. It was funny and engaging and covered a side of my personality I don’t express that often here on Evidently.
But it didn’t last.
I didn’t run out of ideas. I just realized that I only wanted to take our picture. I wanted to capture us, for us, not for you.
That’s selfish, I suppose. But then, a friend put up a thing on facebook recently. One of those quippy signs that said (or the gist was) “Don’t you wish your relationship was as functional as you pretend it is on Facebook?” Â It kinda hit home in a weird way: do you really want to read about my functional relationship?
Because, strangely (not true! It’s not strange, we worked damn hard to get here and to stay here!) our relationship is functional. No, I don’t post blow-by-blows of our fights. But then, I don’t post blow-by-blow of our sex life either. The middle ground—where we drink coffee together every day to chart our days, where we walk hand in hand through our neighborhood, where we sing silly songs to embarrass our 15 year old, where we dance in the kitchen while cooking dinner—that’s working and working well. (oh and that fighting and sex… that’s functional too. Just sayin’)
It’s just not blog fodder, despite 10 years of blogging and the running gag between gasps of laughter, “You should TOTALLY blog that.”
So I stumbled back to Evidently, picked up where I left off, into the comfortable cozy abode I’ve built here. It’s safe to be blogging about my life. Safer than (really) writing about the love of my life. The thought of that scares me. And when I dig really deep, I realize, that while I’m not ready to write that story yet (22 years of marriage seems so YOUNG) it’s probably my one true story to tell. Until then, I’m going to keep taking our picture. And hope that he keeps holding my hand.
I will probably regret this post in the morning judging from the nails I chewed off while writing this. But here it is, my bit of truth. Surely, there are things that scare you about putting your life in print?
As for that *writing. . . this young man’s story is amazing. And, though not for the faint of heart, there’s this: worth a read because it will have you thinking about your own relationship (Parts of which are NSFW). And because this might be the song my soul sings.