claudecf @ flickrYou know sometimes I wish people don’t tell me the things that they do because it then becomes something that I have to tell someone, and by extension – blog. In the recent past, unless the secret was truly sensitive or horrible, I didn’t think twice about writing it so long as I left the specifics out of it.
As my readership increases, so does the potential of offending someone because they know someone who knows someone who knows me. Now, it’s not just the stories of friends and family that I sometimes self-censor on, but I am also wary of writing about things that happened to friends of friends, people separated by two or three degrees of separations even. Oh, the things that I could write about if I didn’t give a shit about still having friends who’d willingly talk to me without worrying about me spilling their deepest and darkest secrets.
Being known for blogging is a double-edged sword. I want to be read because I like talking to an audience instead of an empty room. But that also means that I can’t write as freely as I could as before when only a small circle of family and friends knew the existence of this.
It’s frustrating at times when I know it makes for a good story, especially when I’m stuck for material. So it’s with a heavy heart to say that although I’ve been told and have overheard some fairly interesting things lately I can’t tell you any of them. So you’ll just have to make do with this: my mother made me a chicken-mayo sandwich for lunch today, using leftover Nando bits. It was very nice. Spank you very much. 😛