It’s been pointed out to me that I’ll blog about anything, that no subject is taboo. I think that’s true. I hope so.
When I choose a topic, my intent is to come at it honestly. Sometimes I think I choose certain subjects because of their fear quotient, their level of personal difficulty, just to discover if I have what it takes to stare them down.
The things I choose to write about (as well as the things I say) occasionally piss people off. Ah, well. It’s a writer’s job to elicit emotion. I don’t write for shock value. I’m not interested in getting someone’s panties in a twist, but if I do, well, maybe they needed twisting.
I write because some things need to be said. Like as not, I’m exploring my own interior landscape, poking into holes where dark things reside, sharp teeth bright against the gloom. It’s funny, though…those moments when I write most for myself (to lance some boil left too long untended) are the moments when I connect most deeply with others. (At least that’s what they tell me.) There’s a commonality to the pain we experience as human beings. Some readers become outraged by what I’ve written, but I suspect that’s because I’ve struck too close to the bone, to a personal pain they’re having trouble dealing with. Others seem relieved to finally have it out in the open, even if the “it” is my personal issue and not theirs. Being able to say, “Oh, yes, I’ve been there” makes you feel less alone in the maelstrom of life.
We’re taught that it’s not good manners to air our laundry in public, that we should remain prim and polite and quiet. Maybe that’s one of the things I love most about middle-age: by this point, I just don’t care. I spent far too many years with my mouth sewn shut, my ears stopped up, my eyes blinded. Be good, do as your told, take care of everyone else. If you feel pain, don’t show it, don’t talk about it. Denial, denial, denial.
The words are mine alone. If I feel like talking about something, I will. With words, I am free.