Think

July 20th, 2005

Syracuse University. English and Textual Studies 205. Dr. Donald Morton.

Otherwise known as My Own Personal Hell.

I was, for a little while, an English major in college. I planned to be a writer, of course. Somewhere along the lines, someone convinced me that it wasn’t lucrative enough to warrant a degree from Syracuse University, and about eleventy million dollars in student loans. In retrospect, I’m inclined to agree, however regretful I may be about my decision. But that’s honestly a story for another day.

The class was misery for a college student in every way possible – 8:30 a.m. start time, three days a week, with a reading list that equaled an entire book every two days. The professor was a sex-obsessed linguistic theorist who liked to dabble in Saussure and Derrida. – his explanations of the theories were more obscure than quantum physics, and I spent most of the class confused, angered and utterly frustrated. The trick to passing, I later learned, was doing endless papers deconstructing masterbation and/or sex, particularly within the same gender. A guaranteed B+ at least.

And people say I didn’t get the most out of my education! HA!

Anyway, the point is, I didn’t CARE what the sign and the signifier meant. I couldn’t care less what the structure and subsequent deconstruction of language was – instead, I was content to admire its beauty and wield it as a tool. For me, it was akin to an artist studying the properties and historical significance of paint. Artists don’t CARE about what paint does and how it works together – they care about the end result and what they are trying to create.

Honestly, this could be the shittiest parallel I’ve ever made, but I need to remind you that I hardly paid attention in the class, so my Derrida and Saussure knowledge is, as I mentioned, about as deep as that of my knowledge of quantum physics. In other words, none. And while I’m qualifying, I need to add an amusing aside that my future husband, Adam, was in this very class with me – I distinctly remember him in the back of the room – Professor Morton hated him with an inexplicable passion, we were treated to his daily endless harassment and rude treatement of “Mr R -”, whom I wouldn’t meet until years later, in a different city. We had great fun the night we realized, with shocking realization AFTER we were already married, that we knew each other in college: “That was YOU?” and “OH MY GOD YOU’RE MR. R-!”

Anyway, my feelings about Dr Morton, Saussure and Derrida are much how I felt about the annoying little buggers trying to deconstruct blogging – searching for meaning deep within the text and starting up conferences and panels with titles like, “Reclaiming the Web for Personal Self-Expression,” and the BlogHer conference.

I almost threw up in my mouth when I read some of the points on BlogHer. For me, a panel like, “Reclaiming the Web for Personal Self-Expression,” was like someone saying, back in the day, “Reclaiming Paper for Personal Self Expression.” And anything that uses the word ‘reclaim’ smacks of desperation, rhetoric and frankly, bullshit.

In other words, shut up, and stop talking about the paint. Leave me be. Now, don’t get me wrong, BlogHer has some great points – if I were using this blog to launch a career, as many folks are wont to do, then perhaps I’d feel differently. There are, of course, the Blogerati who sit on their techno-high horses and pontificate about the Web, its meaning, and their royal place in it. Their brilliance is no greater than many others, yet they were early-adopters and quasi-pioneers who struck at the right time. If I were trying to compete with them, then perhaps I’d feel differently, but I’m not.

And then I thought about it some more and I realized how much this medium really is different, and I almost gagged on the remnants of Dr Morton, consumed years ago. But not in any of the ways other people are making it. I love to write. Live to write, in fact. I mean, I never expected corporate communications to be what I do for the rest of my life.

In fact, I’d rather shave my body with a cheese grater and bathe in fresh lemon juice, followed by a poke in the eye with a grapefruit spoon. Writing is really all I’ve ever wanted to do, and blogging gives me an excuse to keep up on it, while writing about whatever I feel like, whenever I feel like it. I don’t care if it seems self-absorbed, as I’ve accused many bloggers of being (yes, that shoe tasted delicious, thanks! The side of crow was particularly tasty!) I didn’t realize that I’m not really doing it for anyone else – it IS self-absorbed and selfish.

Fuck it. Simple, right?

Not so much. What’s different about the Web is that, duh, anyone can read it. I’ve blogged about some seriously personal stuff, and while I don’t regret it – and I’d tell almost anyone anything I’ve written about to their face – it gets dicey when family starts reading it. And friends. And coworkers. And in-laws. I’ll let you guess the only one of those four I have yet to experience.

And then it gets tough. Tough to manage, tough to write about and tough to continue. I mean, I’ve written about drugs, abortion, sex and religion, with a little ditty or two about waxing my ass and KY’ing my lips. I’m certainly not peddling family-friendly fare. I’ve modified some entries to honor Adam’s request not to write about him, lest his coworkers and clients someday accidentally the side of him only I see.

I’m scared, now that they’re reading it. I’m afraid that I’ll stop being honest, and start censoring. When I write for an audience, I suck. And it’s not about them, anyway. I need to remember that.

I don’t want to freak them out, though. I’m terrified that they’ll think that I’m not a nice person, because I’m a little bit – erm, a LOT – irreverent, and I believe in abortion and sex and drugs and all of those things that I did and do not regret. Scared that I’m going to fail to live up to who they thought I was. Scared that I’ll use fuck one too many times, and they’ll think that I’m trashy. And rude, disrespectful and otherwise not what they expected. And a baby-killer to boot. I mean, I’m the same person, and I’m not dishonest around them, but in many ways I’m more ‘me’ here than there – I write more personal things here than I bust out with on your average day.

Fuck.

I don’t care what many people think of me, since you can abandon most of those who don’t approve of your choices, but I do care what family thinks – mine and his. But so help me, I’m going to try so fucking hard not to let that stop me.

Entry Filed under: Nuttin'