I would like to be honest.
I'm not a very good blogger. I go through the loop: blog, stop, forget, remember, delete, blog, stop, forget, remember, delete... which is a depressing little subroutine. It gives full permission for Future Me to nip back to old posts and hate my writing, as he reads it with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.
There are other troubles with blogging. I worry that my life isn't that interesting, that I'll accidentally offend people by writing about them and that I'll be so over the top with my wordy wordiness that you'll think I'm a pretentious twit.
Future Me is all too aware of this. He looks back at me using words like 'vapid' and 'sequacious' and wonders how our paths could be connected. Meanwhile, I think of him as a rather critical part of my audience - the only member who knows what's going on backstage. He's rather an odd barometer to choose to measure the general reaction as he's something of an insider, but that is how it is.
He's probably cringing (somewhere in the future) at me calling you 'my audience'. But for now, while you shuffle into your seat and this paragraph floats across the Internet to your world, that is what you are. You sit with an eclectic group of people - friends, family, colleagues and strangers whose faces flicker in the dark as I look out from behind the curtain. I can't promise that you'll enjoy the show. I can't promise that I'll be interesting or inoffensive, but I'll try to open a little window into my life. If you're alright with that, I'll keep going - but you are free to leave whenever you like. Just don't disturb Future Me on the way out.
M
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