I’m a torn soul who dances on that thin line between wanting to share what I do and who I am with universal exposure or remain silent, content to share within my known community.
Yet, I’m a writer. I produce words in genres that are meant to be public. Does Sandra Brown blog? Stephen King? Nicholas Sparks? Would Jane Austen have blogged? Or Thomas Hardy?
I’ve come to the conclusion that blogging is only for the brave, those hardy souls willing to take a chance, to grow, to learn, to share, and who are oaring furiously toward some shore known only to them, barely keeping their head above the waves that threaten to swap the tiny boat we call self in this vast ocean of life.
Once upon a time, I had a weekly newspaper column that was published in the Marshall Chronicle for five years, an Erma Bombeckish-type humorous column that talked about motherhood, marriage, and life in general.
Since then, I’ve reinvented myself several times, returned to school and am now a college professor of English, but I still consider myself a writer in a wonderland of words, whether it be script, play, fiction, nonfiction, long, or short; romance, mystery, comedy, or suspense.
So, here I am resurrecting that column. Only now, it’s online. I’m still not a hundred percent sure if this is a good thing or not. What do you think? Is blogging only for the brave?