Thus I Learn Blogging Lessons From the Interwebz

I can tell my writing the past few posts has been shitty. To those who actually read the entire posts in question, I apologize for that.

Sometimes I have silly, irrational hopes that someday more than 25 people will actually look at my blog in a day. I know that should that ever happen I'll get snarky trolling comments, I mean this is a public forum and all. Honestly I'm sort of looking forward to them (usually they're funny as hell). I expect people not to get me or what I wrote on a particular day, and I expect nastiness because many people are meaner on the webz than they are in real life (ah, anonymity, you lovely sheltering bitch).

Today I hit a fabulously awful anxiety-and-insecurity wall about writing anywhere except my own damn diary which even my husband doesn't read. See, I didn't expect snarkiness to come from people I know personally, and I really didn't expect said snark to be so utterly out of touch with what I'd posted. Maybe if I'd written better, clearer posts things wouldn't have been missed or taken so totally out of context.

The worst part is reviewing what I'd originally written (because obviously I had something bad in there, right?) and realizing that even after proofreading and letting a post sit for a day or two before a final read-through I STILL might not have been clear enough. I thought it was.

Unpreparedness isn't an excuse, I know, but it still hit me. Yeah, I know: toughen up whiny bitch. I'm a fucking fool for letting a couple of things picked apart out of context bother me. I know it. I still cry a disappointed tear or three when I get a rejection from a magazine and stuff too, so this isn't terribly unusual. Hell, I cried when I got a good review of a story I'd written (much to my husband's amused bafflement). The question is: was it bad writing, or bad reading? I don't know, but I'm working on improving the writing because I have no control over whether someone fully reads something I wrote, or whether they get it.

In the meantime I'll let you know a secret or three about me:

1) I'm not terribly funny. If you want a funny blog go read The Bloggess or Hyperbole And A Half. Sometimes weird shit happens to me, and I find some of it hilarious so I post it. I guarantee it won't be funny to everyone. 

2) I'm not doing this blog for money (look Mom, no ads!) or publicity or even notoriety. Know what? I'm not a goddamn expert on writing, blog or otherwise. If I was I'd likely be writing for a living, not as what should be a fun hobby.

3) This blog is not about you unless I specifically mention your name in print (which I'd never do anyway since then you could probably sue me for the nonexistent profits of this shit I'm posting, or something...I'm not a lawyer). It's my blog, these are my thoughts, my mentalness, my anxiety, my writing: by default 99.99% of the posts are likely to be about me. Is that selfish and narcissistic (and likely boring as hell)? Yupper! Do you have to read it? NOPE! Should you take anything I say here seriously? Probably not.

4) Bonus tidbit: I'm not appropriate: I swear, I talk about sex, I have very little patience for stupid and mean.

I'm not as thick-skinned as I'd like to be. Yet.