I keep thinking, OBSESSING, on what I can't write here.
It's really pissing me off.
I never thought this would happen, because apparently although I am a writer, like most people when it comes to my own self and life I can have a profound lack of imagination. For Example: It never occurred to me that my son's friend's girlfriend would find this blog, read about Mr. Curry and I having sex on the bathroom floor (which is something I'm tremendously proud and STOKED about, we are married with four kids, this should be trumpeted from the highest hills!! ) and text Dakota about it, sending him into a sneaky shame spiral which included threatening serious beat downs to anyone who EVER mention ANYTHING to him about his mom and sex again, EVER, and ' I don't give a shit if I GO TO JAIL MOM ' . OK then. Got that.
Also never occurred to me that so many people I work with and around would find and read this. Honestly, I thought they never would. I don't talk about writing at work, and the few times I have, it's been to the same two people in a small context in passing of which they have shown only polite interest. I underestimated social networking! hahaha! What a dummy.
After my sister in law started reading ( Hi beautiful girl! ) I was like, cool. I love her. But then it started that another relative, and another...and hey, I like our family. They are awesome. They are chill.. But.... I see them a lot. I have to look these people in the eye after I post quasi-artsy pictures of my husband and I during an intimate time of our life. And it's totally embarrassing.
This has been a problem for me since I started writing, long before anyone was even reading what I wrote. I think- and I'm probably wrong, because clearly I have a teeny tiny Kelsey Grammer sized grasp on what actually goes on- it's my main and most profound problem with writing. I mean, did John Updike think about HIS MOTHER when he was writing about Rabbit licking the pussy of his mistress and finding her soul meeting his during sex in a dirty hotel? I do. In the back of my brain, but it's there, and it keeps the work from being brilliant. Fuck. I hate writing that because it's so true and I'm not sure what to do about it.
At some point writers find that the company they keep is the exact kind of person who writes and or reads the kind of thing they themselves are writing- that is a kind of freedom, and that is not me. I haven't attempted enough publication to be at that point. If I ever finish my !#@&^** novel, I'll submit it. Then we'll see. Meanwhile, I hang with preschool teachers, family, old friends and my kids and husband. Not people who are reading Updike, Bellow, Didion- the authors I grew up on and the kind of writing I aspire for. Gritty, raw, intensely worded, naked, adult writing. My blog isn't always like that. This post is nothing like that. This post is me, talking out loud, not writing. Big difference.
So there are now a small handful of things I go to write about and feel muted, stumped, and sometimes, unsure if I should at all. I don't even know if I want to write about these things, it's just the fact that I have to even consider it that makes me sad. What if someone reads something about me that makes them think I shouldn't be teaching preschool, complains, and even if I don't get fired, I get humiliated? I don't know. But I hate it. Everything I write about is honest. But having things I can't write about is new for Flux Capacitor.
What is your writing like? Are there floating subjects you keep in a bubble that says DON'T EVEN GO THERE?
