Apparently, beginning a blog is like writing the first paragraph of a novel or the first line of a poem: by the time this post is actually published, I will have deleted most, if not all, of the words in this paragraph, maybe twice. Some I will re-type after considering the phrasing and determining that the words really do convey my thoughts accurately. At least half will rumble around in my mind until I decide they are unworthy of print or inadequately express what I’m trying to say. I have always hated extemporaneous speaking because I cannot draft, edit and perfect what comes out of my mouth. Writing has always been my go-to method of communication because it gives me time to think about what I really want to say. So I have tremendous expectations of blogging – freedom of expression, a chance to share my thoughts with someone who isn’t forced to listen to me out of pity or politeness, the opportunity to help someone who struggles like I do, the opportunity to struggle together and pull each other along. But, the truth is, I’m a little too scared to share with my friends and family that this is my blog site.
My fear of sharing stems from the same struggle to choose the right verbiage: words are extremely powerful and definite. Naming something gives it shape and meaning, imbuing the emotion or object with immediate form and power: fear, hope, Anne, home, fire, expectation, birth, death… So if I name my journey, if I give words to the infinite synapses firing off in my brain, making them finite and defined, will my loved ones see me more clearly? Or will I be wishing I had never strayed from my journal?