And how I’m really terrible at it.
For years, I kept a livejournal. It was the thing back then, ten years ago: you got an invite from a friend and you could read all kinds of journals, communities, find people with your interests and read about their lives. It was better than myspace (which never really stuck for me), and easier to manage than a blogger account or even diaryland (of which I used to have an account, too).
I made friends on livejournal, people I’ve met off-line. I wrote a lot about my infertility issues, and my pregnancies, and my kids’ infancies. Somewhere along the line, I lost interest in posting: the older I got, the less interested I was in talking about myself.
I don’t think that it’s age– certainly I’ve read plenty of people my age and older who have no issue writing pages about themselves at a time– nor do I think it’s maturity, not by a long stretch. No one who laughs as much as I do at cat videos on youtube could ever be mistaken for mature.
I’ve never been all that great about being open, as it is. Being asked to talk about myself has always resulted in a stuttering, flailing experiment. I don’t know that I’m especially complicated, or mysterious: I just don’t do well with a spotlight, and I never have.
Blogging, even when it’s more about theory, or career, than oneself, is not my forte. I’ve tried, over the years, and possibly tried too hard, if that’s possible. I want a way to discuss writing, and life, and, hell, even myself, with other people, but, truthfully, going about it is a bit of a maze for me.
I know I’m not the only person on the internet who can’t manage to share, let alone over-share. Where are the rest of you?
Oh, that’s right. Not blogging.