I’ve been thinking lately about the irony of my blogging. I crave anonymity, but I publish my thoughts and pictures on a platform accessible to anyone with a computer and internet connection.
|I’ve always loved the anonymity of this photo. Just my chin and a sweater. Photo courtesy of Carrie Hogue.|
Case in point, a few weeks ago I discovered some reviews (here and here) I’d written were easily accessible by keyword search. I felt a mixture of emotions: elation and frustration. I was elated that my blog was finding traction but frustrated that my invisible presence on the web had ended.
|A photo from one of my reviews|
The irony is, of course, if I really want to be anonymous, why am I blogging? I haven’t found the answer to that question, but I think it lies in the “Why” behind my writing. I write to learn myself. I write to understand myself. Consequently, it’s in writing that I’m the least concerned with anonymity. Logically, I have to know me to understand me. Anonymity from myself isn’t an option. The question still remains, though. Why do I then share that writing with others?
On that note, let’s end quite abruptly with a poem by Emily Dickinson.
How public –– like a Frog ––
To tell one’s name –– the livelong June ––
To an admiring Bog!