"Blog" is an embarrassing word.
And embarrassing is hard to spell.
I have written online before, and the same thing always happens -- people I know read it. And somehow this bothers me as if it was an unexpected result of writing words that then go on the internet and also knowing people who can successfully operate the internet and occasionally click on things I post on social media.
In my ideal introverted yet power hungry world, I would be completely anonymous but have a huge blog following and no one I know would read this. I don't think I write about anything too embarrassing, but the thought of my mom reading this makes me all squeamish. Perhaps this is a holdover from being a prolific journal writer my whole life. The thought of someone reading anything I wrote in my journal was so horrifying that I wouldn't dare write in it in a public place in case someone happened to read what I was writing over my shoulder. But this isn't a journal -- I'm really private about all my writing. One benefit of taking so many public interest classes is that I've gotten a lot of chances to write long academic papers and our school also happens to have an online student law journal to which I could submit those papers for publication. I'm proud of the papers I wrote, and I got good feedback from my professors on them, but the thought of allowing them to be read by the journal editors as they go through the fact checking process makes me want to change my name. Just yesterday, I got uncomfortable when I noticed a classmate vaguely looking at my notebook as I took down notes on potential research sources. Nothing about my notes were even vaguely personal, but I still moved my notebook to my lap and wrote hunched over it so he couldn't see.
This was the same thing when I was getting my minor in creative writing during undergrad. I would take all the writing classes in the world, bare my soul in my assignments (after all, writing and reading, in my opinion, should be uncomfortable), but whenever my professor suggested I submit my writing somewhere, I packed up my metaphorical bag and checked out. The one time I did submit something (Oh to be young and brave!) and it ended up published in a small literary journal, I told zero people. I didn't even go to the community reading, or pick up my copy of the book.
And yet, here I am writing words that I will put on the internet and then inevitably a friend will mention that I read them and my butt will start to sweat and I will probably just pretend I don't hear them. This is pathological, right? I do a thing and then am uncomfortable when people respond in the way I want them to respond. I think that my biggest fear is that there is too big of a disconnect between who I am when I write, and who when I am standing in a room with my friends, or who I am when I am crying at midnight because there is just TOO MUCH to do and instead of doing any of it I watched four episodes of Chopped and now I'm TOO TIRED to do it because I have the emotional intelligence of a toddler.
I started this because I missed writing in a way that did not involve a Bluebook citation after every sentence. And here I am angsting over it already. I can only imagine how my writing modesty (so quaint, so proper, skirt to my knees and writing in a closed notebook, please) will serve me the first time I have to submit a brief to court. Maybe trying to get over it isn't such a terrible idea after all.
There are all these bloggers out there in the world who write about really personal things, and who I assume are perfectly comfortable with letting people they know read what they write. HOW?! Where is your shame and embarrassment, and can I send mine there, too??
"Blog" is an embarrassing word.