This blog is my dirty little secret; that is, until yesterday. Enough was enough of concocting fictitious activities to explain my sudden tenfold leap in time spent huddled over the laptop and blackberry, furiously tap, tap, tapping, in an apparent bid to contract RSI. Veiling nothing as sordid or juicy as an online love affair, but my latest time sapper and source of obsession – this little baby blog. In some respects, it could be described as a love affair of sorts – as wrought with passion perhaps as Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction but not executed, I hope, in such bunny boiler extremes.
It’s a vulnerable and embarrassing thing to have people who have known you seemingly forever and think they know you inside out, to read your writing. Obviously the opinion of strangers is less of a stake to the heart. Writing is an open invite to your inner sanctum, for spectators of every ilk. It is such a personal thing and acts as the medium through which your character is refracted.
So, just as the opening gambit of Masterchef ended (‘Cooking doesn’t get tougher han this’), like ripping off a plaster, I blurted out the announcement about my DLS to Mr A – then thankfully returned to the welcome distraction of six sweaty wannabe chefs muddling their way through the invention test in Masterchef HQ.
Mr A is not known for his ability to disguise his true feelings – he is almost binary in his approach. For instance, at any church services he is obliged to attend (weddings, christenings) he will point blank refuse to participate in any of the congregational responses/ hymns/ prayers etc as this would be a direct contradiction to his belief (or rather lack of belief) in a higher deity. I’m all for pertinacity (on every other occasion) but somehow when it might result in some unwelcome home truths I wish he was slightly more flexible with his tenacious tendency.
I left the room while he paid due attention to my written work – I couldn’t bear to witness first hand his reaction. Mr A and I share a longstanding joke that he is a phenomenally slow reader but even for his standards he seemed to be absent a long time. Just as I began wondering whether he’d been sidetracked by e-bay or a piston-head type chat forum, he emerged bearing a very hard to read grin on his face. ‘Well?’ I asked expectantly, hoping for a grade on my paper like the old days after the submission of an essay. His response overall was positive (I think) – quite out of character for him, he managed to be rather ambiguous without inciting discord in the marital treaty. Even now I can’t say for certain whether it was a thumbs-up or just a tactful gesture on a par with Swiss diplomacy. Perhaps sometimes it’s kinder not to hear the truth. Ignorance, after all, is the blissful state.
For all those burgeoning reader cum critics out there, try to cushion the blow if you think I really should hang up my nib.