When I first started blogging, I remember reading, on someone’s blog (I can’t any longer remember whose), a post about the challenges of simultaneously blogging and living. At the time, this was an entirely incomprehensible challenge to me, twice over: first, I couldn’t imagine that the needs presented by blogging might grow either to the point where they could crowd out living or to the point where living could crowd them out; and second, my worlds were so separate – my “real,” alter-ego life and that of “N. Likes” were so far apart from one another, I couldn’t imagine any awkwardness on/in the blog around my real-life doings.
Nine months, almost 500 posts, over 2,000 comments, a girlfriend and several fuck-buddies later? I sort of see it. Blogging is time-consuming, at least done the way I like to do it. I don’t like more than a day or two to pass between posts (and August is the only month so far in which there have been fewer posts than there were days in the month, though September, with two days left, and only 26 posts to date, may well be the second). And it’s not just that I like to post often – I like to post well, deeply. I like to report on my adventures, and my thoughts, in some level of comprehensive detail. And sex and relationships are, by their very nature, messy. There now are people I genuinely know who read this, and people whom I met through doing this that I genuinely know.
I no longer can write with abandon, without regard to the impact my words have on anyone other than my wife (on whom I can, for the most part, intuit their impact almost viscerally). Now, when I write, I have to think: how will various people react? It’s not a huge number, but it’s meaningfully non-zero – people about whom I care deeply, people whom I have fucked, people I hope to fuck, people I will never fuck but care deeply about, and most every permutation (except, of course, people I hope to fuck and people I will never fuck, I hope). All of them are part of my audience, and with each I have a very different relationship. And as a result, I can’t simply write any more: I have to think – about how my words affect people other than me.
Honestly, this is a bit of a drag. Part of the joy of writing this blog was the unfettered voice I could allow myself here. And the inevitable result of worlds’ merging, of my caring about people who read my words, is that they would care about my words.
Couple that with the demands of real life – about which I try to write rarely (rarely try to write?) – and you’ve got (I’ve got) an almost paralyzing case of writer’s block.
In any event, since you’re reading, you probably are at least a tiny bit interested, and here’s an update: my (real) life is sufficiently busy that I’ve not seen several of the people most important to me in weeks, I’m behind in my (insert plural desires, and/or obligations, here) by several weeks. I have fewer spare moments than I can remember in my adult life, and more going on than has been in years. And, unfortunately, little of it is good.
That’s not to complain too much – much of it isn’t exactly bad, it’s just, well, not good. But some of it is affirmatively, sleep-deprivingly, heart-pressure-affectingly, bad. A big bit. And some is ok, but could be a lot better. And then there’s a whole other piece which is kinda horrifyingly bad.
All of which is to say, I’m sorry if my writing has fallen, or does fall, off a bit of late/in the near future. I’m trying to figure out balance, and, my friends and lovers don’t hesitate to point out to me, I sure haven’t gotten it figured out yet.