Numero Uno

A while back, I had a blog. It was nothing special, it just kind of existed as a way to embarrass myself online by discussing my various exploits and thoughts. The most embarrassing part of the whole exercise might have been that my exploits were uniformly tame and boring while my thoughts were jejune and frequently misspelled.

But I miss that innocent time when I thought someone out there might actually be reading about my life, maybe comparing themselves and feeling superior (which is fine, I don't mind living my life as a cautionary tale) or nodding in agreement about how much they too hate it when people misuse the word "mortify". Yes, "mort" is in there, which indicates an allusion to death, but it is not about being "scared to death" so much as "being so embarrassed you could just DIE." One day, I will write a valley-girl-speak dictionary.

Anyway, even if me and and my grandmother are the only ones reading my blog, there is something satisfying about owning a tiny bit of real estate on the internet and knowing that you have some element of control over its contents. And that maybe there is in fact some potential to affect the way people perceive issues you find salient, though in my case those issues tend to be things like "why isn't there a White Castle near me?" or "what's wrong with YouTubing videos of kittens for hours on end?"

My most embarrassing blog-related issue right now is whether the people whose blogs I read will think I'm worthy enough to be on their links list. If I request that one of the people I know through my attempts at comedy writing link to me, I'm almost certain that this individual will gently inform me that his blog is linked only to talented theatre types. Or worse, I might get a link and then have to live up to people clicking over to me. What do you people want to read? I make ice cream on the weekends and volunteer at an animal shelter. All the salacious stuff in my life comes from watching "Rock of Love" on VH1. And there goes my street cred right there.

One thing I've noticed, and I hate to say it but I will, is that I've so far met very few genuinely funny women in my, admittedly limited, experience thus far. I've met even fewer, if any "people of color" (a term I hate, hate, hate but what else can I say?). In fact, I am the only female "of color" that I know of since I started this odd process a year ago. And, I hate even more what I'm about to say--that I actually don't mind. It makes me feel less competitive, as though me and others in my demographic cohort would be compared to each other to see whose "disgruntled immigrant" sketch works better, or whose "my parents and I have a culture clash" story was more rousing. This way I can stick to cliches and feel relatively pure and novel because I have the benefit of being "unique". However, I know the moment I meet a truckload of "funny colored females" like myself, I will completely lose the vanity and self-confidence I've built up.

So, what's the point of these musings, which don't even have enough passion behind them to classify as a diatribe? The point is that, I want very badly for the two sides of my self to be indulged. But while one, the business-y side of me, is kind of hanging out in a calm kind of purgatory that I'm moderately comfortable with, the other "writer wannabe" side of me is constantly being thrown up against people who have talent and experience and verve and personality. And, me being me, I actually feel a little shy around these people, ready for them at any moment to call me out as a dilettante or hack. And I have no reason for this anxiety as far as I know--everyone I've met has been very kind and encouraging to me, making sincere attempts to help me improve my writing even when I submit work that really would have been more useful setting fires to houses or precious artifacts.

But, and I hate to say this too--I do want to be accepted by these people. "These people". This tribe of comedians and theatre junkies whose career is expressing themselves to an audience who will actually pay to hear what they have to say. I think that's amazing, and I want to be a part of that, but boy do I feel like I'm missing some of the important parts it takes to make that plane fly.

Thanks for reading. It'll get more interesting once I start my scholarly descent into alcoholism.