I’m not going to go into a long explanation about why I’m feeling like this, but suffice to say I’m feeling extraordinarily vulnerable. I need to write here, now, why I bother with this blogging business.
I’ve said it before. I’ve talked about my hopes and aspirations for this blog. I’ve even talked a little about the wonderful things that this blog has taught me and the fantastic friends I’ve made.
I’m not going to give up.
If you’re reading this and you don’t like me, or what I write, seriously that’s fine. You can always choose another blog. Perhaps a happy clappy, life is wonderful, we should all be mothers and housewives’ blog. You will find a blog out there that reinforces your views on religion and the role of women, of mothers, and you will find blogs that state, quite firmly, that God is indeed an Englishman.
Those blogs are out there. This blog isn’t one of those.
I’m feeling under attack today and I’m trying hard to be a grown up about it, but the truth is, it really stings. You see when I write this blog I put myself out there. As much as I try to fool myself that it doesn’t matter what other people think of me or my life or the choices I’ve made, (or the words I use to explain my stories!), it hurts when I’m confronted by criticism.
Right now I want to go off into the woods, curl up under a tree and quietly disappear.
You see writing is a very personal thing. It allows me to reach you, via this keyboard and this screen. It allows me to explain myself, and it allows me hopefully to help you, to entertain you and maybe just maybe make things a little better for you.
I’ve been there… I’ve been so low I seriously didn’t think I would ever get up again.
I’ve been divorced, I’ve been in hell, I’ve been hurt (physically and emotionally), I’ve had terrible dark horrible things happen to me in this world and I’m still standing.
I’m here to tell you that you can survive it all. And still smile. That wonderful things do happen. That people change for the good (not only the bad). I write this blog as my story. I don’t intentionally write anything here to hurt anyone else. Sometimes I express how they’ve hurt me. I try to keep the details to a minimum, but as I’m human sometimes those details slip out. I’m not vindictive. If I really have a beef with you, believe me I’ll tell you, directly. I won’t blog about it.
Sometimes other people feature in my blog. My children, my family, my friends. I can’t write their point of view, because I’m not them. This is my place. Typically I ask them if they mind me including details, but sometimes I allude to someone without revealing too much about them (I hope!). I never aim to hurt anyone.
I’ve wanted to write since I was seven years old. And now I am, I’m actually achieving some success, and with that success comes criticism. I want to run away to Belgium, like poor old Stephen Fry did when his play was badly reviewed. I want to just hide and not blog. I want to just withdraw.
One of the hardest things for a writer to deal with I think is not so much lack of success, but success itself because it inevitably brings with it, criticism.
I want to offer my support to my friends Rebecca Emin whose wonderful writing was anonymously attacked on her blog, and to Jay at Mocha Beanie Mummy who has felt bullied this week about her blog. I know how you feel and I offer my support. We just all need to remember that as Oscar Wilde said – ‘The only thing worse than being talked about, is not being talked about’
Somehow we have to hold that close as a shield, grab our talents and keep fighting.
And finally, a note for those of you who have so paintstakingly taken the time to criticise, please a)don’t read our blogs anymore if you don’t like them, b)they’re not about you, they’re our story, and we have a right to tell our story in our own words, c)we have never purposefully set out to cause anyone any harm, if you feel you may be offended by the stories, lifestyle, language or experiences this blog contains I reccommend you disengage.
Thanks.
Off to find a tree, in the woods, under which I shall hide. x
