December 16, 2003

It’s extraordinary how hemmed in I feel.

When I started this blog, nobody read it. Then a few people started to read it. Then lots of people started to read it.

Then people I knew started to read it.

I want to write about E.S., but I keep censoring myself because, since he knows about the blog, he might read it–not that I’m hiding anything from him this time around, but still. And he’s actually informed me that he’s purposefully not reading it, but still.

I want to write about cheerleading, but I keep censoring myself because a handful of cheerleaders on the squad who’ve stumbled across the blog, including the coach, might read it—not that I’d be writing anything more extreme than what I’ve already written, which seems not to have bothered anybody, but still.

This medium used to be so safe. And it doesn’t feel that way anymore. So for the last few weeks I’ve taken refuge in very brief posts and in stories from my childhood. I’ve drafted a few posts about things closer to my heart—or whatever performs the function of that organ in my body—but haven’t yet found a way to make them work to my satisfaction. And as a result I feel both less funny and less interesting than I used to be.

I’m a long way from giving up this enterprise, I think. But still. It’s a treacherous ocean I seem to have entered.

And I’m terrified that I’ll lose you if I don’t learn to navigate it.