Writing my truth anonymously in a blog helps the frustration come out in a safe way.
I had precious time away with friends who have known me since university days. Two live south, two live north, so we meet in the middle, in Yorkshire, at a hotel with self-catering lodges.
We have to share a room, or even a bed; fortunately two of them are best friends so they are OK with that. Two of us – not the same two – are insomniacs, so there is a race to see who gets to the living room sofa first.
There’s no wi-fi, which makes it surprising how popular the place was this year. It meant being a bit cosy with strangers in the hot tub, but everyone was willing to cooperate.
Over dinner on Saturday evening, I disclosed to these trusted long-time friends that I’ve recently started writing this blog, and that – since it is anonymous and cannot be linked to me in the real world – I write the truth about my feelings about being a sandwich filling. They agreed that there are things we can’t say – because of social taboos – even to our closest friends, because inevitably we are judged by what we say. Fortunately, there is not yet an Orwellian thought police, but I explained that writing my truth helps the frustration come out in a safe way.
One of ‘the girls’ – the one who has been most successful in the way it is usually judged in our society (she has achieved a very senior position in the profession in which we trained) – immediately tried to give me a boost by saying that I was always a good writer/editor and that I should publish my blog. [A discussion ensued about Brooke Magnanti…]
Her motive was admirable, but I was a bit dismayed that such a sharp cookie, and very nice person, should so fundamentally misunderstand the whole point; if I published these thoughts that I have, I would die in a hail of hate mail.
There’s also the small point that I’ve only written five posts so far, so I’d be several chapters short of a book even if I had ambitions to write one.