I Don't Care What Anybody Says About Me, As Long As It Isn't True

I’ve recently been reminded of the concept of considering oneself a Private Person. It was not a rude reminder – it was quite nice, in fact, as these things go. Especially since by all rights I deserved a firmer hand. But still, it's had the effect of pulling me up a little short.

See, I started this blog however-many years ago because – well, because my agent told me to, for one thing. But the reason she wanted me to do it was so I could start “putting it out there,” at a time when she was the only one who believed that what I had going on was even worth the putting-out at all.

Back then, I was trying to break into the business of writing about myself, and the proven model called for giving the milkshake away for free in hopes that big bulls might come sniffing around the cow. It was as good a plan as any, so I tried it – reluctantly at first, then with ever-increasing ease, until before I knew it I was telling the world (well, all forty-two readers of this blog, anyway, and my 157 facebook friends) the gruesome details of my every mysteriously-contracted social disease (oh, yeah, you forty-two blog readers missed the whole pink-eye fiasco; you can get the details from the facebook friends: it's gross).

When Johnny was in my life, it seemed natural that he be sucked right in and put out by my side. I told you about his foibles just like mine, I told you about our fights, and I was careful to always make myself the butt of jokes. It wasn’t true, of course. I took the blame in this space because I thought it made good comedy, but more often than not, he was the stinking butt. It wasn’t fun for me, most of the time, at all. But I think I made some pretty decent lemonade.

Now that I’ve left, though, I owe him his status as a Private Person back. Don’t get me wrong, he loved being turned out and commented upon these past three years – I saw the sparkles in his eyes when I'd read him the things you people said. But he’s hurting now. I did it to him. And no matter how oh-my-god-if-I-could-only-list-them-for-you valid my myriad reasons may be, I’ve got absolutely no right to his pain.

So forget what I said: I deleted my last post, and won't be discussing the divorce in detail in this space at all. I might make allusions to it once in a while if it's germane, or over, but there's enough going on in my life that I ought to be able to find plenty to blather on about without picking somebody else's scabs.

I’m no longer trying to break into the writing-about-myself-business, for one thing. I can't talk much about it, but I’ve got a whole new not-about-me project going on. "Not-about-me," that is, in the sense that Other Voices, Other Rooms was "not-about" Truman Capote, or A Separate Peace was "not-about" John Knowles. This was also my agent’s idea, it’s going well, and she’s very excited about it on my behalf. Even though she’s still the only one out there who believes I should be putting out.

Well, maybe not the only. But it turns out that's none of your business, either. I learned my lesson well, believe you me, and have therefore become an ever-so-slightly more Private Person these last few days myself…

Purely for the sake of the milkshake, you understand.

Eggshells, man. Not exactly a natural gait for this tits-out town-crier girl, I tell you what. I hope I don’t wind up re-splinting my shins!