I really like reading Schmutzie’s stuff at schmutzie.com. Sometimes it’s just cute pictures of her cats, or her toes, or a tree and a poem or something. Sometimes she writes about shoes – super, awesome shoes. But most of the time it’s deep, meaningful and personal. Like her most recent blog which is hopeful and beautiful while being tragic and sad at the same time. I hope one day to be as brave as her. I often feel like I’m reading her diary – which feels voyeuristic and weird. Then, I remember she’s put this out there for me to read. Which still feels weird when I think about it really hard.
I love to write – the act of writing is satisfying to me. Do I need others to read it to make it real? Like that tree in the forest thing – if there are no ears to hear the sound is a sound actually made? If there’s no one else to validate the writing has the act been worthwhile? Well, sure – I write in my journal and it’s very cathartic. But, would I feel comfortable having others read it – strangers who live a million miles away and have never met me? Would it be easier for strangers to read it and less comfortable to have friends read it? Or vice versa? If I write a book that an agent actually reads it won’t be my diary, but it will still be part of me. Part of me on the page, in black and white for all to see. That sounds a little scary. And, yet, I really appreciate the posts that Schmutzie puts out there. They are heart-warming and heart-breaking. I love that connection I make with another human being when I read her stuff. And, I’m an extreme introvert, so I don’t make connections quickly. Of course, in a way I’ve known her for over 20 years – but, not really.
It’s amazing what you can do with a piece of paper and a pen, or a keyboard and a website! Bare your soul and connect with others in deep, meaningful and personal ways.