it turns out forks are fucking everywhere
(I don't recommend playing the emotional shell game with the songs I've been listening to lately, but if you want to ... here you go.)
Today has all the makings of a good writing day — rain, a little free time, some tasks to get distracted from — yet the writer's voice in me stays quiet. My silly little goal of writing everyday for a month straight is making me work for it, and I'm clawing my way to the finish line.
I've started to settle into a routine. Recurring nightmares and a misaligned circadian rhythm conspire to keep me up past midnight most days, so I wake up around 10 and start job hunting by 11. I go into a trance while filling out forms with my work history and voluntary self-identification of disability until around 1, when I take a break for lunch.
In the afternoons I work on tasks for my tutoring job, which right now consist of lesson planning, responding to emails, and doing some light development work. I read for an hour before dinner, eat, then go outside for an hour or two before coming back to write a little and read until I fall asleep.
One of the kind strangers who helped me in the miracle of the lost vinyl surprised me by writing me an email this week telling me she'd read my post about her and asking me some questions. (If you're reading this, I promise I'll get back to you soon! I'm a little behind right now.) I'm always flattered when people I don't even know tell me they're reading my blog, but as my audience has slowly grown to include people who might know me in real life, I can't help but wonder if it's affecting how much I feel comfortable disclosing on this blog.
Last night when I was feeling awful listening to that song and trying to fall asleep, it occurred to me that I should blog my feelings. Misu from last year certainly would have. But for whatever reason, I feel more friction pulling me back from doing the same now.
It's not the complete strangers. In fact, I feel most comfortable writing to them. They don't know me and probably never will, so I can say more or less whatever I want to them without fear of being judged. Friends don't bother me either. Those I met through blogging knew me through my misery, and those I was friends with before (hopefully) don't mind or they care enough to reach out to me. Either works for me.
It's the strange catch-all group of everyone else — old classmates I don't consider friends, people I used to know, coworkers, friends of friends who I might meet one day — who make me acutely aware that I'm being perceived. I know it's silly, because I can see the viewer stats on my page and know that it's highly unlikely that they're here, but it's the possibility that they might be that at times spooks me and makes my writer voice go cold.
(I don't mean for this to sound like an accusation or anything, and I hope nobody takes offense. It's definitely a me thing. I just need to get out of my head.)