HOLLY MIRANDA SMALE

Writer, photographer, "rapper" and general technophobe takes on the internet in what could be a very, very messy fight. But it's alright: she's harder than she looks, and she's wearing every single ring she could get her hands on.







.








Friday, 27 March 2009

Blog Weirdness

"So," my grandad said when I popped my head through the door for another Ginger Nut biscuit, "how did the interview day go?"
"Well," I said, pulling my feet on to the couch for a good story-telling session. Thirty seconds later, I abruptly stopped talking. Grandad had glazed over and his smile looked stuck on like the smile on a Mr Potato Head. "You've heard this already, haven't you," I stated flatly.
"Umm..." He looked a little awkward. "Well, yes. I read your blog every day. But that doesn't mean I don't want to hear about it," he added hurriedly.
"I can't tell you a story if you've already heard it!" I exclaimed. 
"Of course you can," Grandad said kindly. "So you had salmon, eh? What type of salmon was it? Was it nice?"

Why are you not ringing me? I texted my sister yesterday. 
Busy with coursework, she texted back. But don't worry, am reading blog.
Not quite same thing, I replied. 
Nearly, though. And PB is douchebag. Will kill when coursework handed in. Love u. 

Mum, on the other hand, appears to be engaging the blog as some kind of third party to every conversation we have. 
"My students are being little... Hang on," she'll say. "Are you going to write about this? Okay, write: my students are being little cherubs. That'll get them on side." 
"Mum," I'll sigh loudly. "Can we please forget the blog exists? It's supposed to be the silent witness, not the prime suspect." 
"Okay," mum will agree. "For the record - and make sure you write this down - mum has agreed not to keep referring to blog during conversations."

You're not a 7.5, emailed a lovely boy I have never met, you're an 11. "What's the swan thing?" another asked. "And some men do ring when they say they will," agreed a third.

"Sorry about the date thing," the BBC rang to say. "Read your blog, didn't realise you were so upset about it. Wouldn't have asked to come if we had known."

"I'm Indecently Beautiful?" emailed Indecently Beautiful Boy. "Awesome." 

The problem is that sometimes I forget that other people can read this little blog. I know that sounds daft - because if I didn't want anyone to read it, I wouldn't put it up on the internet to start with - but it's true. It's like getting undressed without closing my curtains; I forget that the world can see me (and yes, I do this too). Perhaps more significantly, I find it hard to believe that anyone would want to see me. So I chat, and I write, and I take my top off, without a thought for who else is out there or what they can see. And then I'm genuinely surprised that people know all about me before I've even told them. 

I love it, obviously. I'm a writer, so readers are the missing piece of my jigsaw: without them I don't make sense at all. But sometimes it would be nice to have a conversation with my nearest and dearest without being prompted half way through with: "You missed out the bit about the pen." It makes telling stories very difficult when everybody already knows the ending.

Drinks Friday? my friend texted me last night. 
Okay, I messaged back. Out of interest, are you reading my blog?
What blog? he said.
Brilliant, I answered. 

Now I've got one more story to tell.