Sometime around Christmas (hell, maybe it WAS Christmas, my swiss cheese like brain cannot remember such details), I casually let it slip that I write almost every day to my father. It had come up in some sort of conversation, and as the words flew from my mouth, I immediately began to hope that no one was listening to me (for once. Normally I expect people to hang off of my every word).
Of course, he heard me and asked if he could read some of what I write.
I use the phrase “write” in a completely different manner than he would have expected from me. To me, a writer would sit at an antique typewriter next to a ream of paper and a pack of cigarettes, and sip cold coffee while he/she penned their memoirs. Although I have noticed that some bloggers receive book deals based on their blogs, I am certain that this would never be me. It’s just not where I see myself (plus, I’m pretty sure that this means that you have to sell yourself to someone who might publish you. Interviews make me feel squishy inside, and I’m all too certain that my lackluster ability to spell properly coupled with the fact that my grammar is often wrong would prevent any sort of deal).
And, more importantly, I hate the word “memoir.”
But my conversation with my father would have been the ideal segue to tell my family about my blog. And I choked.
I’ve read other blogs that are read by the blogger’s family, and I’ve always found it strange.
It’s not my *ahem* colorful language that made me shy to tell him, hell, I learned the best of these phrases from my father himself, and it’s not even the subject matter. Although I occasionally refer to my slightly turbulent childhood and my mother’s illness, I don’t say anything THAT BAD about it. Certainly nothing I am ashamed of seeing later.
And honestly, since most of my real life friends read this blog (okay, okay, it’s because I pay them), I know better than to say something on here that I wouldn’t say to someone’s face. The Internet is a small, small, place sometimes, so I try to keep ANYTHING remotely inflammatory off these pages. It seems safer that way. Plus, I hate the idea of inadvertently hurting someone’s feelings. Anyone’s. Unless that was my goal.
That said, being “out” to my father, who I know would faithfully read this (but probably never comment) leaves me with an odd kind of gooshy feeling. Dave suggested that I print out some of my choicer posts and give them to him in hard copy form, but I doubt that they would read like anything OTHER than a blog post, and as an avid blog reader himself, he would know. Or could easily google it.
Am I over-analyzing something simpler than that? Should I just let him know ALL ABOUT his daughter, Aunt Becky and be done with it? I have a feeling that someday he’ll discover me here, whether or not I tell him about it, because The Internet is just that small sometimes.