The eagle-eyed amongst you will have noticed that I do not blog under my real name. Not because I’m ashamed of my words, or because I want to develop a sideline in trolling, but actually for two reasons:
1. There are other people in my stories. Mostly (but if I’m honest, not exclusively), they are people I care about. Therefore, I think it could be a little awkward if I publicly aired their foibles and oddities by linking them to me on the interwebs. Nobody wants to receive a phone call along the lines of:
Erm. My Mum just read what you wrote about me in your blog and now she’s crying into her gin.
2. I have a really sensible day-job and I think my employer would be less than delighted to read my thoughts on corsets and horsewhips, anal bleaching, why I’d rather be a harlot than a whore, and the like. If you get my drift.
But here’s the problem with having a pen name / anonymous blog / whatever you wish to call it: I can’t easily promote my words. Many bloggers will share their posts on their Facebook page, via their twitter, link up their Instagram and thereby their musings are shared with the world. Or at least their world. I, like all other anonymous bloggers, work on the basis that if I tag my posts effectively, interested parties will hopefully stumble across my writing and, if they like it, might follow me. So I’ve created something of a barrier between me and my potential readers. Smart, huh?
Of course, I could just “come out” and show my face to the world, but I want to be honest with you. I don’t want to have to hold back in case I drop someone in the doo-doo, or I upset my boss. I’m fairly sure he doesn’t want to read about the time I got my knockers out for the pharmacist. Or, if he does, then quite frankly I find it rather inappropriate. And a bit creepy. Eeeuuwwww…
So here it comes; my desperate plea for attention: If I write something you like, or one of my crazed ramblings touches a nerve, or if you think “cripes! I feel exactly like that” or “actually, my sister should read this”, then please share it with your world. Because I can’t.
Because otherwise, dear reader, I’m just a woman, sitting alone at a keyboard, reaching out into the darkness of the interwebs. Just baring my soul about my disastrous dates, alpha-female feminism, and my fabu-crazy, partially-disabled, overly-opinionated kind of life. And you simply must know someone who’d want to read about that, now mustn’t you?