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Sekrit Identity

As mentioned in the previous post, I am married to a web head.  Pursuant to her mission to get the entire world online, there have been times I've moseyed over to one of her little corners of the net and found a small diatribe or two about my failure to get over it and blog already.  (The big diatribes are reserved for my failure to leave her comments.)

Since my usual response has been along the lines of “Honey, I'm right here...if I have something to say, I'll just tell you,” you'll probably understand that she's fully entitled to some righteous glee about now.  

Except, seeing as how our Real Names(tm) are in play over there, she's pretty much been limited to doing the Snoopy dance of joy around our living room, because, good God, woman, only one post and I've already admitted I came here for the pr0n.   Tell. No. One.   Sheesh.

So if I don't want people who know me to know what kind of fic gets me hot (1), why mention it at all? 

Because after another in what had become a series of nights staying up and reading into the very small hours, it occurred to me that what I was really loving was not the content of the stories, shivery and delicious as they were, but the fact of 'em.  I was waiting for a subway and thinking about how it was almost April, and therefore, National Poetry Month. 

I hate National Poetry Month, because despite having bothered to get an advanced degree in the subject, my tolerance for reading or writing it has been so gone so long that it practically qualifies as a past-life experience.   I've got a whole manuscript that's basically been relegated to a drawer for a decade, and there's more than one reason for that, but the biggest is therein lies Disturbing Content and I've battled with myself about whether it was okay to release it into the world.

I have, in fact, had someone tell me straight-out that it wasn't. (It was at Bread Loaf and she was my teacher and it was the first day of the vaunted summer writing conference and it was even more horrifying than it sounds.)  And though I've been graced to have been the student of many other fine writers, who've said much more heartening things, it's her voice that's been the loudest in my head, because she's the one that said what I'd always been scared might be true.

There on the platform, it suddenly wasn't lost on me how fearless these writers were, how generous—thousands, thousands, of words out there to share with whoever happened by, and damn the consequences.  Because there don't have to be consequences.  There can just be the words, and if some of them don't happen to speak to you, well, it's okay to keep moving. 

So I went home and started a website.  Which, um, isn't actually this one.  It's taking me a while to get it the way I want, especially since I still have to stop and hyperventilate every once in a while about whether I can really do it.  I was thinking it was going to need a manifesto of some sort, but now I guess I can just link here.  

And count myself lucky, knowing that, even more than wanting her completely-deserved opportunity to crow, my web head is just glad I've finally arrived.


(1) If I ever get up the nerve to actually rec anything, it's probably not really me.  I do feel the need to point out, though, that it's not slash.  Or rather, it is slash, but that's not the part I don't wanna talk about, because, hey, lesbian.