Thanks, Dad

The fact that Father's Day is fast approaching has nothing to do with this post. The fact that I gave my blog address to my dad this week did make the teensiest contribution.



I have written here before about a few things I'd rather my loved ones didn't know... how I still drink soda that's laced with brain damage, I mean aspartame, for instance. How I once took my husband's vintage BMW out for a spin (that was me, honey) and an entire truckload of drywall compound left a stoplight too quickly and hence dumped its load of sticky, fast-drying mess on the hood of his beloved car. Oops, I didn't write about that yet. Now I feel better.

But the truth is that my loved ones already know this stuff about me, and worse things even, and they most likely still love me. Honey?

I have written here before about a few things I'd rather complete strangers didn't know... how I occasionally enjoy a top shelf margarita (blended with salt of course; I make a mean one) or a glass of wine with or without dinner. Sometimes (well, just the once) I tell my kids they can go to bed hungry if they don't like what I cooked. Sometimes I watch (gasp) Grey's Anatomy and I OFTEN read things that don't come close to meeting the bar of literature or hard news. Blogs, for example (just kidding! Y'all are writing some fine literature.).

And the truth about this is that my readers will either laugh with relief, because they're not perfect either, or they'll click away to a more perfect blogger. Please don't.

I'm just doing my best to share the things that are on my mind. I hope you'll do the same.

So after I gave my blog address to my dad -- and he had been asking for it for about a month -- he called me up to say: "This is your private stuff. I don't want to read about this." [Then my dad went on to say that it goes without saying that my writing is good, always has been, blah, blah, blogworthy not.]

Well... um... hate to disappoint, but this blog is not my private stuff, any more than Grey's Anatomy is Masterpiece Theater. That is certainly not to say that my private thoughts and writings are all PBS and highbrow, either. I know, you're surprised, hunh?

For years and years, before I understood what an icon might be, I looked up to an iconic author. Nonfiction, fiction, theology, journals, poetry. I could swim in L'Engle's writings. And I've felt like I knew her, when of course I didn't. There are others: Anne Lamott, Grace Paley. I wonder what those women would have done with a blog? (A-hem. Anne, if you're blogging, I'm gonna go Google it in a minute.)

I don't know how to put the deeper stuff out there. I don't really know how to be funny, or philosophical, and I don't really know how to be anything other than I've been so far. I don't know how to share the "private stuff" and still walk around as a semblance of me. I'd like to, because I have so deeply appreciated the brave people who do, and I want to emulate them. But that stuff is, well, private. And I may not be good enough with words to put the required distance between my heart and the keyboard. And then it might not be worth reading anyway. Hmm.

I'll keep you posted.