Today a blogger I read mentioned that she’d been plagarized by someone else, and I commented that it seems somedays that the blogosphere is just about as big as my living room, so she was bound to find out that someone was stealing her words… And awhile back, another friend was pondering the life cycle of a blog, wondering how she felt about so many random weird people reading her words, and thinking that they knew her.
Well, it’s been my week for feeling weird about this, too. I was quoted in someone else’s blog as having disliked a YA novel for being written improbably… and the blogger commented that perhaps I was too old to appreciate the writing, but if I were the intended audience, I would have loved it.
Huh.
Well, here’s the thing: I’m not too much different than I was at sixteen. That is, I am not and never have been anything other than the most pragmatic realist. I’ve often hated that, often felt the sting of being unable to just lose myself in the randomness of young adulthood and become giddy or freaked out about things other girls came unhinged over. I would watch footage of Beatles and Elvis concerts and watch people shrieking and fainting and wonder what the hell was wrong with them. I’ve just never been… that girl.
Well, so this blogger goes on and on and then the AUTHOR of the book I disliked chimed it as grateful that the blogger had a.) read her book b.) given her a chance to comment on things. She got a chance to explain herself, made lots of nice noises about “I certainly didn’t intend that,” and between the two of them, they tidied up my review. That the blogger is acquainted in a friendly fashion with the author lessened the sting a little, but I’ve since felt a little stupid for having posted a review that was negative. It was polite… but it was negative.
Mostly I felt stupid because I questioned myself.
As a writer — I dislike the book.
As the internal sixteen year old that I embody — I dislike the book.
As a person who avoids conflict…
Nope, can’t change what I said about it.
But it bugs me that I felt a little stupid about it briefly.
I’m NOBODY here. Who are they? Do they really know me? No. Do I really know them? No.
This is blogging — we’re all nobody. It’s all an anonymous exchange of ideas. And mine clashed with theirs, that’s all.
But I still feel weird about it. Now that I’ve become involved with the Cybils, doing my little reviews and giving my opinions about the young adult literature world — even doing something as simple as talking about my agent in CODE has me feeling a bit exposed. I guess it’s all in the question of WHY I started blogging in the first place… not to get anyone’s attention in particular, but because of the anonymity of just having a little space to say my piece… in part.
I used to ask my friend Nat how she could stand to put such public stuff up on her blog, and she told me (with some bewilderment) that it wasn’t really her. As soon as something really personal came along in her life, she ‘retired’ her blog, because she couldn’t write about her real life with any degree of detachment. I’m not feeling like that yet — I haven’t had any truly bad experiences with my blogging, but it does feel strange to read yourself described as someone who is “not afraid to say what she really thinks on her blogs” (Really? Sadly, if only they knew…) or someone who has Opinions that are so fixed and central. It’s all so very… odd.
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you—Nobody—Too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you know!
How dreary—to be—Somebody!
How public—like a Frog—
To tell one’s name—the livelong June—
To an admiring Bog!
– the Belle of Amherst