3 1/2

I'm just terribly private, you see? Everything about the process seems like such an unavoidable hurdle. It isn't like I dislike people.

I like people.

I like what makes people people.

The ticking and the tocking.

If that feels as if you've just stepped close enough to overhear some nugget of a conversation which was in no way aimed in your direction, then you understand. I feel that way all the time. I started you off on the same foot I'm usually standing on.

And it isn't as if people don't like me. Contrarily, people often find some part of me worth gravitating towards. Usually, it's some part that is a stranger to me. It's fascinating, flattering, and more-often-than-comfortable, unnerving.

See? This is my 'unnerved' face. (actually, it was taken while we were on holiday in Atlanta in July. The lights in the bathroom at Hotel Indigo (fantastic place) made my eyes look weird.)

Don't wrap this gift in the gaudy paper of ungratefulness. Or please, at least, do not read it as such. I am thankful for interactions, although it may force me to seem like a new-born doe on ice. I'm doing my best. Between the unfairly neglected Official Facebook page, the even more neglected blog, and the criminally neglected Twitter feed, it may not seem like it, but I'm doing my best . . .and you matter.

That's a conundrum, isn't it? The whole thing. This whole thing. It's a tennis match with my ego. I'm sorry to drag you through this, but it's part of the deal. If you read this blog hoping to learn about me, then you get to have the unadulterated insight that I do not have the patience (or energy) to perform as a persona. I could dress it all up as pleasanter or easier to digest, but why? If you've read this far, you're in on the deal. We're in this together, and the person to which I would like to direct the sentiment, “you don't get to be disappointed that I'm not who you thought I was” has either already left or is reading on in a huff. Either suits me just as well as the other.

Now, let's talk about the hard stuff.

My family (biological, step, in-law, & Soda Ash) aside, I could fit in the palm of my hand all the people who I have called 'friend' in all of my life. It's a muddled concept, 'friend'. It's a simple word, used often, filled with meanings which differ from one to the next. I'll drive it home: I have five friends. Five extraordinary human beings to occupy their own little sections in my life. One of them is married to me. The other four don't know each other. That is the honest, dark, deep depth of it all. It's purposeful. It's deliberate.

Obviously, I should probably address the fact that I've likely just annoyed scores of people. I don't mean to betray or humiliate: If you know me, and feel hurt by what I just admitted, I'm sorry. I care about you, Poet. About you, Mom-of-three-one-adopted-but-three-well-loved-children-in-total. And you, quiet-yet-well-loved illustrator. All of the rest of you wondering if you're on the fence, I do care for you. I really do. The only difference between you and The Five is that The Five approach me like a medicine which could harm if taken improperly. I'm getting off-track...

The point is (finally) that I've opened myself up to a vast world of connectivity. Part of me wants the contact with readers, while part of me stumbles all over myself in the attempt. I never re-read these blog posts as I know I would delete much of what I typed, so - no edits (lucky ducks). I simultaneously get the most bizarre messages on FaceBook, as one would ask about 'the underlying symbolism' in my work, while the other asks if I've seen the latest 'The Voice'. Nine times of ten the legitimate questions have answers that I really can't share with someone who hadn't read it yet. So, my relationship with readers, a relationship I would truly like to learn to foster, is still greatly one-on-one. I'm trying to suss out how to remedy that.

This has taken 3 hours. I could write about the smallest little hidden sliver of a memory lodged in the deepest recesses of a haunted mind …. thousands upon thousands of words, in 3 hours. This is very difficult for me....worth it, I think, but difficult.

I think what caused all of this is that someone felt closer to me than she was. A reader, I never met her, connected through Facebook, read my books, sent me messages, she wanted me to be something she invented, she got angry, felt hurt, I kept hurting her. She kept getting hurt. She said that I'm a disappointment. I said it didn't concern me. She called me 'condescending'. I agreed.

Had it gone another way, it could have been a lovely conversation.

In summation and conclusion: I'm trying. I am really really trying.

Very few people are 'close' to me.

You don't have to be 'close' to me for me to care (deeply) for you.

Reading my work is the highest praise.

Being able to give me a dissertation on my own work, while flattering, does not mean you suddenly own me... or my intangible 'disappointing and condescending' intellect.

3-and-a-half hours now.