(Editor’s note: I just spent an inordinate amount time trying to determine if it should be spelled “overwith,” which was my first inclination, or “over with” in the heading of this post. According to the internet, which I don’t need to remind you is quite large, my inclination was wrong, and this has my Internal Committee of Self Doubt already snickering about the untrustworthiness of my inclinations overall, which they are now pointing out is evidence this entire blog is probably a horrible idea. Bunch of dicks, The Committee. Please just ignore them when they start asking what an “ordinate” amount of time would be to spend on something like basic spelling of a common phrase, leading them to then point out that attaching qualifiers such as “ordinate” or “inordinate” to time in the first place is irrelevant and, frankly, irresponsible, much like this post so far… As I shuttle them out of my tiny office (shown here in the photo), they are calling back over their shoulders that the sentence ends with a preposition…)
This is going well, I see.
This is not why I have invited you here.
In the general sphere of “what the hell am I doing?” I have created this blog because I have decided that, while the process of writing is an intensely personal endeavor, some of these ideas I have been incubating may be ready to leave the nest, with more ideas fledging all the time. They may plummet, or they may fly, and it is time to see what will happen. If they plummet, I will make better sentences; I love words too much to do anything other than work harder to bring out the best in them. If they fly, I will be flying, too.
Am I nervous? You bet. I am curious more than worried, though, and if I were to allow it, I might even admit that I am kind of excited. But please, for my sake, don’t make eye contact with the excitement, because it may turn into a panic attack, and then next thing you know I will go from curious to breathing into a paper bag.
As we get started, I should probably tell you some other things about me, in addition to the fact that you have determined that I am an anxious person who makes unfortunate bird analogies. I am providing some of the basics, in part, so that next time I write you will have a bit of the backstory. I’m looking forward to writing to you in shorthand, but first there is this longhand for me to deal with until I get the hang of things around here. I hope you will bear with me.
So here goes.
My mother had multiple personalities, and is dead. Being raised by a multiple is something I will be incorporating into my posts, including anecdotes about some of the insiders, and thoughts about what their life and death meant, and continues to mean. They loved me, and I loved them, and I really, really miss them. That said, this blog will not be “about” them; I’m writing a separate book about my moms, or, rather, about me in relation to them, so most of the more intense stuff will go there. And yes, that book is as hard to write as it sounds.
From a writer’s standpoint, I have been provided a wealth of experiences in terms of subject matter at my disposal, but have faced the dilemma that many of the topics I know most thoroughly are not those that people necessarily are comfortable talking about, thus, hearing about (or vice versa). “One person’s writing prompt is another person’s emotional trigger,” as it were. It is, indeed, a balancing act. I say that I am “trauma-informed,” and use phrases like “lived experience” when I am in “mixed company,” and throw in that I have an “actual certificate” from a university program to “prove” that I am “legit,” mainly because I am cognizant that self-identifying as “epigenetic sweepstakes winner” would flaunt my …ehem… “privilege.” Also, PTSD really brings down the mood. (Editor’s note: I am aware I have used “too many” quotation marks in this paragraph. When I talk I am making an effort to employ more finger guns, and fewer air quotes, but I have not figured out yet what the punctuation equivalent of a finger gun is. I realize both finger guns and air quotes are annoying.)
Next, I am an atheist, but a superstitious one (when I say this, it makes me worry that Christopher Hitchens is going to grab my ankles while I am sleeping). It doesn’t mean that I am right by any means, and I know this. I’m not here to convince you. (And I most certainly hope I don’t ever have to convince Hitchens. I can only imagine what an arrogant ghost he would be…)
In complete contradiction to what I just told you in that last paragraph, I also believe my mother leaves pennies for me to find. You don’t need to take my word for this, either.
I have had OCD since third grade, which likely has something to do with being superstitious. (The “C” in OCD gets most of the attention, but the “O” is the brains of the operation, and I won’t get into now how the “D” label bothers me, and not just in this diagnosis…) We can talk more about this later, or maybe I will just post a list of acceptable hour/minute combinations for setting one’s alarm clock, or give you a pattern to replicate repeatedly with an accompanying assignment of counting to a certain prime number until it “feels right.” Whatever that post is, it will be typed with freshly washed (and washed) hands, I assure you.
For the record, and because it is going to come up, I am mostly (usually?) gay. Sometimes I will get a little political about this. Generally, I will just talk about it like it is normal, which it is. It took me a long time to figure out that part, and that still makes me both happy (that I figured it out) and sad (that I had to). And kind of pissed that I didn’t think I was normal all along, when it comes down to it.
Being normal has come as a bit of a surprise overall.
In short, I know some stuff, and I give a shit. I have not been able to shake my optimism despite my best efforts. (The Committee is rolling their eyes right now and daring me to add “chagrined by positivity” to my LinkedIn profile. It’s actually kind of tempting. – Ed.)
Lastly, I have a cat. You’ve undoubtedly already assumed as much.