I decided I wanted to start this blog in the hopes that by pretending to write to somebody I would feel less like I was just writing to my own head, which can become a terrible, confusing, jumbling mess of emotions and angst. Whenever I journal I somehow manage to turn back into that 13-year-old teenage disaster. A "Are You There, God? It's Me, Aletheia" wannabe Judy Blume character from the mid-1970s dealing with the trials and tribulations and life lessons and inevitable over-comings of a teenaged girl in suburban America. Well obviously, this cannot stand. Even I don't want to read that, "so what's the meaning of it all?" crap, especially when espoused through the mouth of an apparently pitiful 24 year-old, even if I am that 24 year-old.
Thus enters the blog! I'll change it all around by fooling myself into believing that there is, indeed, "an audience." Though I know for damn sure the the only real reader is Boo Boo (hey Boo Boo) and I suppose that my knowing that inevitably changes the witty banter of my "voice." I'm teaching writing to 5th graders for at least 45 minutes, 5 days a week and we talk a lot about "voice." We tell them to "know your audience." Well, I guess I should take my own advice and know my audience. And my audience is just Boo Boo. And he's probably hoping that I stop talking pretty soon so that he can... well... not listen to me anymore.
Wish granted.
