Someone asked me, “Aren’t you afraid of what you’re sharing on your blog?”
I have been diary writing since grade school. This was back then when it’s all pen and paper, no running my fingers through the keyboard, no hitting the delete key. It was all honest, raw. Spontaneous. Once the ink trickled out of the pen, it’s final. Published.
Flash forward the internet age. I started a blog in 2004 (not this one) – it was nothing different than my handwritten journals, only this was ‘online’ and others can see, whether I allow them or not. It didn’t matter to me who was reading though somehow, those who did cared. They related to my stories, my challenges. They offered pieces of advice, they cheered me up, they made me feel heard.
But as more and more readers came, I became cautious. There are days I feel restrain, hoping the itch to write will go away.
There are things that I so wanted to talk about openly, to write but the fear of infamy stops me. If I pursue and write it with the devil may care attitude, it may be therapeutic for me but I could be judged and I’m not sure if I can handle it well. Also, I am not sure if anyone would even want to read it at all.
What is appropriate? What isn’t? I go through this in my mind a lot lately. I started blogging to look for a place to simply share my thoughts, the random things going around my head. The feelings I can’t shake off hoping someone would console and say, hey me too, you are not alone. And I did – I wrote more freely in the past. But as readers and subscribers grew, I felt I transformed into what they expected me to be.
And now I long for the carefree writings of the past. I want to get back to the old me, back to the essence of why I began.