FEAR No. 058 – Peace In Anonymity

This weekend has been draining. I’m dealing with some things and, without getting into too much detail, I will say this: It’s hard. I’m OK now. And God bless my husband. I’m not even joking about that last part. I wish I could say more, but just typing anything related to it makes me cry, so…

There’s that. Until further notice, anyway.

Onto (semi) lighter things:
Things in my mind hit me in waves. I wish I was one of those people who had singular thoughts, and could process them one-by-one, like an assembly line or checklist. And I can sometimes. But the times between assembly line and tsunami are very few.

Case in point – I’m working on a new concept for this blog. Big. Shocker. I am a scatterbrain, yes. But one day recently, I sat and looked at my blog. Then I started reading old posts. Then, because it is the universe’s way, I realized half my posts are missing pictures because of edits I’ve made on Flickr (DON’T LOOK!). Then I go to check my stats: who’s reading; from where; what posts are popular; where did I dip in readership; what topics are reeling people in; what key words are being used to search me…

And, while we’re on that subject, I just want to give a special editor’s note to those using the words booty, big booty girls, and big booties… I’m sorry. I swear that, in most instances, I was talking about Kim Kardashian. Or treasure.

Honest.


Also, when I mentioned this little fact to BFam, his response was, “Have you ever posted pictures of yourself? You only do shots from the waist up, right?”

Nice, honey. Like the taste of couch much?

…So then I started getting analytical as this is my nature (read: psy-choooo). And I start wondering, well, hey! How come I don’t have a lot of readers? What am I doing wrong? There are obviously lots of unhappy, depressed, suicidal people out there. Why aren’t I reaching them? Is it because I called them unhappy? Or depressed? Or suicidal? Why, Santy Claus? Why?

When I start visiting my special place of crazy neuroses, I tend to distract myself. Since I was already sitting at a computer, I took this as an opportune time to catch up on my blog feeds. This is the time I stumbled on this post.

Now, before you ask, no. I am not a single mama. I don’t even remember how I found the site. But I liked the style of writing, liked the content, and liked that she was sort of a local (from the town of my alma mater, anyway). See how I make sense?

And it got me to thinking because, with all my crazy, you have no idea how close to the ledge I was before that post. The ledge of changing my style. Changing my voice. Using my real name and those of my children (BFam threatens to divorce me if I ever use his, and I like him too much to let that happen; use of his likeness is as much of a rope as he’ll lend me). Because, when you start out into the world of blogging, you’re originally doing it as an act of catharsis. Then you get a flow. Then you get readers. Then, ultimately, you think you’re Dooce. Because what person out there doesn’t want to quit their day job, stay at home, and receive national and monetary recognition all while spewing details of their daily life?

Don’t lie to me.

But, like most blogs that catch a fire, that situation is special. For whatever reason, the cosmos aligned and brought us the Dooces (Dice?) and Pioneer Women of the world. They didn’t ask for it. And, I don’t care what book or how-to site you read, it’s not for everyone. Not only are the set of circumstances surrounding the popularity of these sites special (read: happenstance), it takes an equally special type of person to deal with the popularity because, let’s face it. Not everyone is going to love you. And if you deal with the love, you’ve got to deal with the haters. Like Lady GaGa says: Once you kill a cow, you gotta make a burger.

Yeah, I have no idea what that means either. But it sounded cool. I think.

In my short time (and even shorter list of readers), I’ve had a few negative comments. Only one had me so incensed, I was not only ready to shut the site down, I was ready to trace the URL of the commenter, hunt them down, and do some serious damage. And that was one person. ONE. I have screws loose, and I’m not medicated. That can’t be a good combination. At least Dooce made fun of her situation with a Monetize The Hate site (she has since taken it down so as not to give too much power to the haters), and I don’t think an ill word has even been said of P-Dub at Pioneer Woman because, let’s be honest. The woman lives on a ranch with her cute kids and her cute dogs and her cute husband in his cute chaps. Leave her be!

Of course, it begs the question: Why the hate? In the time it took you to read what I wrote, only to form an opinion you felt (anonymously) worthy of leaving in the comments (anonymously), spewing your (anonymous) venom about how you (anonymously) hate someone you’ve not only never met, but who probably wouldn’t remember you or your (anonymous) cyber bullying should you (anonymously) choose to come out from behind your curtain.

Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not well known or well read because I’m… well, an idiot. And the only crazy I do well with is me.

Oh, and one more thing… ANONYMOUS.