There was a look of barely disguised horror on their faces when I talked about it. Clearly they were wondering, why would I reveal myself on the Internet this way, when there's so much evil, avaricious intent—hackers, viruses, ID thieves—out there? Why would I open myself up to strangers? Do I actually make friends with people I've never met face to face?
My answers at the time were inadequate. There was no way I was going to budge them from the belief that I'm some kind of nut for exposing myself online as I do, as though I'd done a striptease on American Idol. I woke up at 3am thinking of what I might have said, but alas, much too late.
At the time I simply explained that writing is something I do and I wouldn't be happy not doing it. A writer is happiest when there's an audience, however small, to respond, however briefly. Otherwise writing becomes a very lonely pasttime. I have thoughts and ideas to share, and no amount of fear inhibits that urge to speak up. It goes beyond ego, beyond wanting to toot my horn. (Unless I'm doing a magnificent job of self-deception.)
Trying to explain to some people what it's like to be part of a blogging community is like trying to describe what the wind looks like, or what the color red sounds like. They all do e-mail, but only with people they know—family, friends and neighbors back home. Maybe they never had pen pals, I didn't ask.
All I know is so far I've now been blogging for four years as of January when I first started writing about our sailing adventures, and so far have no regrets. It's more likely I'll think back someday and regret times in my life when I didn't write a post, when some really stupendous event took place.
Speaking of stupendous events, today I'm remembering a morning 42 years ago when I woke up in a San Francisco hospital after giving birth to a baby boy. Couldn't have blogged that one, didn't even have a computer then.
¡Feliz cumpleanos, m'hijo!