My Grown-Up Xanga

Someone said something to me the other night that hasn't really left my mind. I watched as she pulled up my website on her computer and responded in fake, but sort of real, shock "You haven't read my new post yet?" She leveled her gaze at me and glared my fake, but once again sort of real, indignation right off my face as she replied "Of course I read it. I just wanted to see if someone responded." Already a good conversation, if you ask me. I like that my writing is an "of course" for someone. But it gets better.

When I said that I didn't expect any responses, she turned back to her computer and said that people aren't willing to be that honest on the Internet. Don't you love how women can do that - make your world with one little off-hand comment?

Of course, the opposite power is theirs too, but that's another post I've written a hundred times before.

All of that got me thinking about the status of my writing here. The original thought was that I'd put my scripts on here and hopefully somebody would stumble across them and pay me Scrooge McDuck amounts of money (you know, the kind you can swim in), but then I remembered how the Internet works when I didn't go viral immediately.

There had to be a more regular aspect of this site to get sites like Google to even pay attention to it, so I started writing in it. At first it was casual and about nothing, then it was fervent and about nothing, then it was casual about nothing again. I do think I found a little gold when I delved into my own lunacy while writing about participating in NaNoWriMo, but maybe that stuff's only amusing for me.

It's when I started laying my baggage on the carousel (forced airport imagery there, for some reason) that I found people interested. I've actually had people talk to me about it that I never thought would care. Which is to say most everyone, I suppose.

I just can't believe anyone would want to read these thoughts I usually don't want to write. It feels like my Xanga from high school (long-since hidden, don't bother looking). But back then it was pathetic, and now it's apparently ... interesting, even just a little? I don't get it.

Maybe this teenage angst that I haven't been able to shake out of my system plays a role somewhere in the grand scheme of me being a writer. Maybe feeling anxious and angry and unhappy more often than I can help is useful in some way that I can't see yet.

Maybe it's all on my way to earning my Scrooge McDuck money.