Sometimes I imagine that I have a normal marriage but then reality comes and bites me in the ass. Like today.
I realized two nights ago that I was about to upload my 100th blog post, and I shared this fact with my family. It struck me right then how incredulous my husband was, and realized that he has never even read one of my posts. Not a single word of a single post–he never took the time.
Meanwhile, I have seen and had input about his iDevice apps for years. I’ve watched ugly, stand-in pretend games morph into complex, gorgeously illustrated pastimes. Currently, I am witnessing the changes in an app where I even named the game.
To be fair, I have never asked him to read what I’ve written, but when I’ve mentioned my blog, he’s never expressed any interest. Even when I jumped for joy as to how many readers I had in one day, nothing. He does look happy for me for a second but I’m never sure if it’s about the blog or he thinks it’s funny that I still jump up and down as an adult.
In reality, I write for practice and pleasure. If someone reads what I’ve written, then there’s even more pleasure, and it makes me want to do it again and again.
Perhaps if I knew that my husband read my blog, maybe I’d be more reserved and less willing to share. Maybe I’d be more critical and less willing to take a risk. In fact, after mulling this over, it’s probably in my best interest if he doesn’t read anything I’ve written. There’s far more freedom in that option. At dinner, I never have to explain ad nauseam what I meant when I said xyz, or explain why I shared such personal information, or defend my writing at all.
Instead of feeling slighted and ignored by my husband, I’m relieved. I can be Bloggoneit without explanation.
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