God, I wish this blog were anonymous.
If it were anonymous, I could write whatever the hell I liked, about who I liked, when I liked. I wouldn't have to consider hurt feelings, the possibility of backlashes, the damage that I might do to relationships with an ill-thought out flip sarcastic remark about - well. I can't actually say what I want to there because, you know, the person I'm saying it about might read this and then they could get upset. Even if what I want to write is so damn funny that it makes me laugh out loud, sometimes I just can't do it.
Instead, I measure my words. I pace out my sentences. I consider my sentiments, and try to ensure that on-screen at least, they are as clearly phrased as possible. I do everything humanly possible to present myself, my life, and my circumstances in a clean and tidy manner (a place for everything and everything in it's place), when in reality I want to scream and shout and be unreasonable and just fxcking swear out loud sometimes for fxcks' sake. And I want to write FUCK without using an 'x' instead of a 'u', or worrying that the wrong searches will pick up this blog and get me banned from google or put me on the 'Avoid at All Cost' list for bloggers who care about such things. (For the record, I don't, particularly. A well placed and relevant expletive is worth more than a glass of wine in lowering my stress levels - or it would be, if I were allowed to use such words as a clean-living mother of two small boys.)
You might be wondering what my problem is. After all, The Potty Diaries is anonymous, isn't it? Well, no. Not really. Not where it counts. Sure, there may be one or two members of my family who don't know I blog (my 98 year old grandmother being one of them), but not that many if I sit down and think about it. And you know what? I did this.
I. Did. This.
I brought it all on myself. Oh, I started with good intentions, certainly. I began writing it late at night, when even my husband was in bed (or away from home), and didn't tell a soul. I kept it close, kept it secret, worried that if I had to care what other people thought of my writing it would stifle my creativity. (Yes, yes, I know; it's a blog, not a great novel, for goodness' sake. I shouldn't be so pretentious about it). But then - well, then I began to get proud of it. I started to get readers. I made friends online. And not only did it make sense to explain to people what was taking up some of my time (and why, if I'm honest, I was less frustrated with my lot as a stay at home mum, because as you may know; if you do it right, blogging provides some of the best free therapy there is for recovering career women), but I wanted to show it off.
I wanted my nearest and dearest to see how bloody clever I am. Look at me! I've taken nothing and made it something! Aren't I great? Because really, that's one of the big appeals of blogging for me; showing that I still have a brain.
But was giving up my anonymity worth it?
I am aware, of course, that the moment you admit to writing anything online, if it bears any relation to your 'real' life, a determined searcher can find you with very few problems. So if I'm honest about it, the chances of a blog's author remaining undetected and truly anonymous are practically zilch. And then there's always the future to consider; once you write something, it's out there. For as long as this is an internet-fueled world, it's out there. No matter that you might take down your blog, delete your posts, consign all your musings to the metaphorical circular file; somewhere they will be on record. So screaming like a harpy about your child's issues / love life / family concerns / general gripes and moans could be seen as inadvisable if you don't want a curious teen to learn all about mummy's secret thoughts in 10 years time.
So I guess it's a moot point, really. Unless I want to go back to the old technology and simply write a diary, stuffing it under the mattress for safekeeping and leaving instructions with my solicitor to burn it when I'm gone to save my children's blushes, I need to accept that sometimes I have to self-censor.
I mean, pen and paper is all very well, but I would be the only person to read a diary. And where's the fun in that?
If it were anonymous, I could write whatever the hell I liked, about who I liked, when I liked. I wouldn't have to consider hurt feelings, the possibility of backlashes, the damage that I might do to relationships with an ill-thought out flip sarcastic remark about - well. I can't actually say what I want to there because, you know, the person I'm saying it about might read this and then they could get upset. Even if what I want to write is so damn funny that it makes me laugh out loud, sometimes I just can't do it.
Instead, I measure my words. I pace out my sentences. I consider my sentiments, and try to ensure that on-screen at least, they are as clearly phrased as possible. I do everything humanly possible to present myself, my life, and my circumstances in a clean and tidy manner (a place for everything and everything in it's place), when in reality I want to scream and shout and be unreasonable and just fxcking swear out loud sometimes for fxcks' sake. And I want to write FUCK without using an 'x' instead of a 'u', or worrying that the wrong searches will pick up this blog and get me banned from google or put me on the 'Avoid at All Cost' list for bloggers who care about such things. (For the record, I don't, particularly. A well placed and relevant expletive is worth more than a glass of wine in lowering my stress levels - or it would be, if I were allowed to use such words as a clean-living mother of two small boys.)
You might be wondering what my problem is. After all, The Potty Diaries is anonymous, isn't it? Well, no. Not really. Not where it counts. Sure, there may be one or two members of my family who don't know I blog (my 98 year old grandmother being one of them), but not that many if I sit down and think about it. And you know what? I did this.
I. Did. This.
I brought it all on myself. Oh, I started with good intentions, certainly. I began writing it late at night, when even my husband was in bed (or away from home), and didn't tell a soul. I kept it close, kept it secret, worried that if I had to care what other people thought of my writing it would stifle my creativity. (Yes, yes, I know; it's a blog, not a great novel, for goodness' sake. I shouldn't be so pretentious about it). But then - well, then I began to get proud of it. I started to get readers. I made friends online. And not only did it make sense to explain to people what was taking up some of my time (and why, if I'm honest, I was less frustrated with my lot as a stay at home mum, because as you may know; if you do it right, blogging provides some of the best free therapy there is for recovering career women), but I wanted to show it off.
I wanted my nearest and dearest to see how bloody clever I am. Look at me! I've taken nothing and made it something! Aren't I great? Because really, that's one of the big appeals of blogging for me; showing that I still have a brain.
But was giving up my anonymity worth it?
I am aware, of course, that the moment you admit to writing anything online, if it bears any relation to your 'real' life, a determined searcher can find you with very few problems. So if I'm honest about it, the chances of a blog's author remaining undetected and truly anonymous are practically zilch. And then there's always the future to consider; once you write something, it's out there. For as long as this is an internet-fueled world, it's out there. No matter that you might take down your blog, delete your posts, consign all your musings to the metaphorical circular file; somewhere they will be on record. So screaming like a harpy about your child's issues / love life / family concerns / general gripes and moans could be seen as inadvisable if you don't want a curious teen to learn all about mummy's secret thoughts in 10 years time.
So I guess it's a moot point, really. Unless I want to go back to the old technology and simply write a diary, stuffing it under the mattress for safekeeping and leaving instructions with my solicitor to burn it when I'm gone to save my children's blushes, I need to accept that sometimes I have to self-censor.
I mean, pen and paper is all very well, but I would be the only person to read a diary. And where's the fun in that?
