I get jealous when I see how popular other people's blogs are.
There, I've said it.
I hate to admit it. I really really hate to admit it because I don't want to write for popularity. I want to write for me, write free, write whatever the hell I want because it's my blog, and this is my writing playground, and if other people come and read it and like it, then that's wonderful (it's so wonderful), but if they don't like it then who cares.
And I do write for myself. Every post I write has a kernel of something that I feel passionate about that it drives me to sit in front of this white box writing words and deleting them and writing some more. It's just that if I wasn't simply writing for myself, then I wouldn't be blogging at all, would I? Would I? Why would you do that? Why wouldn't you just be writing in a journal, or in a Word document, if you didn't somehow want other people to read it?
So I do want other people to read my blog. And I hate it that I do. I want to be an island. I hate neediness. It makes me feel depressed and vulnerable because from my experience, I'm not very good at making it known, at asking other people to help me. I am very good at hiding my vulnerabilities. It's sort of like a really well-functioning mask, and now it's been there so long that it's soldered to my face. When I look at other people and how free they seem to be to talk about how they want encouragement or whatever, I realise that in comparison I'm not so good at it. And those people who are good at it therefore have a ready supply of people to support them whenever they are feeling needy and they say so.
I resist it because it scares me and I don't know how to do it. Because my fucking father never gave me even the rudiments of encouragement that a kid needs if she's not gonna feel like she collapses every time a bit of criticism comes her way (internal or external). So by the time I manage to get across that I'm needing support in some way, and yeah, some validation and encouragement, I'm probably a bit too far gone and I'm melting down in some fashion and my needy hole is weeping out my eyes.
And so I'm jealous today of those people with popular blogs. And then I'm jealous of those people who have writing careers that publish their stuff for money. I'm jealous of people who lived in ages other than mine where greediness and status and money-focus was not the only currency their society seemed to speak in. I'm jealous of those people who seem to be able to do living in this world better than I seem to be able to do. There are some people who feel at home here. I have felt on the fringes for as long as I can remember. I'm jealous of people who are employed to their abilities, because here I am still transcribing stuff, and some days I think I'm going to go a bit mad because I'm too fucking smart for this. I'm jealous of people who don't spew up in their mouth every time they have to do some sort of marketing on their own behalf, who are happy to work on their "platform" to aid their career.
I'm jealous of those people with thicker skin. The type who would read this and think "oh, she's having a pity party." Those sorts of people. I'm jealous of people like Catherine Deveny, the Australian comedic and author, who regularly wrote stuff for The Age that went against the commonly accepted grain and rode the virtriole that came with it. People with thick skin - I hope those people feel thankful that they have this as part of their temperament. Because I'm not like Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs, and I haven't yet been able to find anyone that sells extra skin on eBay.