I knew my 100th post was coming up quickly–and now I see that this post is #101. What began on MySpace as rather a lark two years ago has now become a necessity for me. I’m grateful for the privilege of being in almost daily touch with friends and readers (and readers who are now friends!). I have loved being able share those shiny objects that catch my attention, and the small joys my writing life has given me.
Long ago, before I’d published a word, I suggested to P in a wondering sort of tone that I might keep a diary of Pomegranate’s childhood–detailed with her progress and my thoughts about being a mother. He asked me why I wanted to do it, and said that I surely must be thinking I would eventually publish it, that anyone who says that they write only for themselves isn’t being truthful. I demurred, reluctant to let him, or anyone, think that I would be so crass as to exploit our darling daughter in such a way. I wish I’d started that journal–not because I’d want to publish it, but because her childhood as drifted away from me and I’ve forgotten so very much that I wish I’d held on to. Of course, I have exploited my children and family a thousand different ways in my work–but not so that anyone would see. A writer is good at hiding those things. Even from herself.
It’s true that I always write with a reader in mind–it’s you, the reader, that I hope to surprise, to delight, to please in some small way, or even, occasionally, provoke. Though I usually save that provocation thing for my prose. This is my playground, and I especially enjoy it when I can introduce other writers, other worlds to whoever wanders by.
So, thank you so very much for reading!