I’m about to get sentimental. All men who are not interested in talking about their feelings or women who don’t want to listen to another woman whine should leave now.
You’re still here? Well thank you!
I’m not really going to whine about my (lack of) a love life, but I am going to draw connections between my writing and my personal life.
I don’t like to open up to people. In person that is. Blogging is a little different because other than hopefully meeting up with Barb, Lua and a few others whilst in the UK, I may or may not ever see any of you in person. And, for the most part, if you’re reading the writing blog, you’re a like-minded soul and feel the same way as I do about a good many things that I post.
But I only told my mom about this page a few weeks ago.
Yea. I know.
Why do I keep writing to myself? Why am I not very bold about it? Why am I THE SAME EXACT WAY WITH MEN!?!?!?! Well, it’s just too darn close to me. Telling people about my writing is pretty much the same thing as bearing the innermost portion of myself for the world to see. And what if the world does not approve? Worse, what if my friends don’t approve? What if my mom doesn’t like it?!?!? (I can tell when she really likes things I write or if she’s just saying she does because she’s my mom.)
It’s the same with dating. You have to let the other interested party into a part of yourself you don’t normally show others in order to see if you really work together. And that is bloody terrifying.
A while back I was sitting at my desk at work when one of the other interns walked by. At the time I happened to be working on Wounded Soldier.
“Whatchya doin’?” he asked leaning over my desk, eyes hungry for a sneak peak at something he knew she should not see. The forbidden fruit takes many forms.
I slammed the notebook shut, the sound echoing off the walls, undoubtedly making all the other workers in cubicles down the hall jump. “NOTHING!” I said far to hastily and far too loudly. “I’m not doing anything!”
“Looks like you’re writing something.” The fox doesn’t give up that easily.
“Yeah. Um … just journaling.”
Now what would be so wrong with saying, “Just working on a story I’m writing?”
Well … that would mean … exposing myself. That would mean letting him into a place where my own mother barely has admittance. Only a few, and I do mean a very few, friends have had the honor of reading my material from beginning to end. Snippets here and there is one thing, excerpts on the blog is ok, and I started Ensnared with the intention of posting it on Serial Central so I couldn’t just chicken out and let the rest of the lovely ladies down! But to really let someone in? To tell them all about the stories that so enchant me and occupy every moment of my thoughts? To let him into such a personal space?
Dear God. Please give me any other option!
What’s the point of this post, Miss Rosemary, you ask? You’re all over the place today. Give me a break, it’s two thirty in the morning. But the point is, I have had a revelation which has enlightened me. It opened my eyes for the very first time. Whereas before I had no idea how I would find The Right Man and often fretted over living alone for the rest of my life like Jane Austen, I know now how I will be certain I have found The One, whenever he decides to enter my life stage left.
The One will be the man with whom I have no qualms sharing any of my writing.
He’d better be a bookworm.