Confidence is a flitty nymph. She flutters in, is easily swept away. She perches on my shoulder for a moment, frequently brief, and then is caught up in the faintest of winds and blown completely from my sight. As 2007 became 2008, the fiercest gales were blowing. She was nowhere to be found.
And so it is that once again all of this–this writing, this unbearably dull droning about my aches, pains, sadness and injustices–began to feel like a fruitless and pointless exercise. Maggie Mason was right. No one cared what I had for lunch. Nor what I’d gotten for Christmas, nor what I’d coked for Thanksgiving dinner, let alone all the foibles of New Momminess or that I happen to have a hideous, keloid scar on my belly.
Life is hell. For everyone. Why do I feel the need to go on and on about my personal one?
Get over it and get off the Internet.
Confidence far out of sight, blinding gales of wind and rain shrank my visibility to zero. My story wasn’t important. Even when half of the story I told here wasn’t mine. It was Lyra’s. Her birth, how she was growing and changing. It was her face and her feet playing muse to my amateur photographer’s eye. It was me constantly pondering the impossible bond that July 9th, 2007 had made between the two of us. Wondering when or if I will find more to celebrate than mourn about that day.
I was invading her privacy. I was putting her at risk. Maybe her story wasn’t mine to tell. Maybe it only belonged to her. Maybe the fact that I had nothing else to write about besides her was a sign of how completely small my life had become. Maybe my life was uninteresting. Maybe my writing was uninteresting. Maybe I wasn’t a good enough writer to make my life interesting.
Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I wasn’t good enough.
Maybe I wasn’t good.
Maybe I wasn’t enough.
And so the tapes played in my head. I found myself starting posts I couldn’t finish and taking pictures I was too afraid or ashamed to post. (Even as a I write this, I’m feeling nervous and apprehensive. This is too naked, too narcissistic. I have stopped twice–for days–and am resisting the urge to do it, again.) I have come to terms with the latter. I will continue to take and post pictures of Lyra and I will still write about her here on my blog. I’m willing to feel okay about writing about her a lot, or rarely, depending on mood. I spend 90% of my waking hours with her and she will be the only human whose toes once found a comfortable home under my rib cage. I think I have to be okay with writing about someone who is such a big part of my life, and if that means I don’t have anything else but her to write about sometimes, I’ve decided to be okay with that.
In terms of the privacy issues I that have gripped me, I’ve decided to give us the privacy I need (for now). That simply means that I’ve upped the security on my blog to block search engines. This means that for now at least the fuzzy fantasy where the editor of some magazine is doing a Google search and winds up at my blog and falls in love with my writing, is not going to happen (not that I believed such fantasies would become reality, mind you). I comment on quite a few blogs throughout the week. If someone likes what I have to say, they may find their way here. If not, that’s okay too.
It also means that I’ll be posting most of my future photos to my .mac account, instead of Flickr. This allows me to have a less visibility on my photos (people can’t discover them on accident, they either have to be sent a link or find them by way of my blogs). This also saves me an extra step in uploading from iPhoto, though I lose some of the functionality and organization of Flickr.
As for the former–those tapes–I’m working on it. I have a convoluted, confusing relationship with the written word. I feel much like Hemingway’s main character in The Snows of Kilamanjaro, a writer in name but not in action. Actually, I don’t use the word writer to describe who I am or even my “dream career.” Not any more. I no longer feel like a writing life was my destined life, or that anything is getting in the way of that. I think writers write. Nothing more complicated than that.
I’m not a writer right now. I don’t know whether I’ll evolve into one. In the mean time, you get this. Me, spewing on the page, hoping you’ll find something interesting enough to check back for more.