Should You Share Your Blogs With Someone You're Dating?

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Up until my last relationship, I kept my writing (and certainly my blogging) mostly a secret from whoever I was dating/crushing on/sleeping with. They knew that I was a writer, but typically they didn't hear anything unless I wanted to share it, and if they ever discovered my blogs it was not because I gave them the link. I wasn't trying to be sneaky and I wasn't saying anything bad about them--usually. It was just great to have a space where I could speak write freely, sans judgement from anyone I cared about. The writing was for me to look back later and say "I made it through" or "girl you are so melodramatic" or "dammit, how did I manage to use the wrong form of there/they're/their?!" But once I know that someone special is reading I can't quite find the same voice. Instead of writing for myself, I'm writing for them, to them when I feel I can't say things face-to-face.

 

Magnetic Poetry
Image: Steve A. Johnson via Flickr

 

That's actually one reason I stopped blogging regularly. After every post, within ten minutes, I'd get a text: What did that mean? So you're mad about XYZ? Oh that's not about me huh? Well who were you talking about then? On and on and on it went.... My blogging was meant to dump the thoughts out of my head so I could possibly focus on the next thing. Debriefing my SO on what I'd just written was not the next thing I had in mind.

So I said forget it; I'd just write in my private little notebooks and start working on a book that anyone could read without me feeling some kinda way.

And then last night/this morning happened.

After a round of wakeupbutnotquitemorning sex, the current SO or whatever he is blurted out, "I bet you write some f--ked up poetry about me don't you?" Where did that come from? Sure, he's probably seen some of the stuff I've been working on when he uses my computer, but none of that has been about him. Anyway, I told him that I simply write how he makes me feel. (Unfortunately, lately those feelings have been confused, frustrated, and like an addict unsuccessfully trying to kick a habit.)

He asked to see what I've written about him. I reluctantly showed him the stuff that was on my phone since that was closest. He didn't like it; felt that I had nothing but negativity for him. How I managed to have all the good things about him written on random pieces of paper in my office and tucked into my Bible is beyond me. And the fact that there was old poetry about old affairs that were much more... sensual didn't help my cause.

We talked, for what seemed like forever. About my writing, about other relationships, about us. The convo was cringe-worthy at times,

especially when he asked who certain pieces were about. I didn’t hold anything back. After all, one thing I can say for us is that although things are not perfect and there’s still a lot of gray, there’s never been a time when I felt he was dishonest with me, so I won’t be dishonest with him. As hard as it was to put all my feelings out there with him, with no paper or screen to help me carefully craft my words, I did. And to my surprise, when we finally went back to sleep, he still held me tight, like I still belonged to him.

But now comes that familiar feeling. The pressure of writing something for someone else as opposed to writing because I have something to say. (Slightly off-topic: do any of you experience this? It’s a petty problem to most of you, I’m sure.) Do I write some grand declaration of my love for him and make him read it? Nah, that would seem too contrived to me. Do I ignore it and hope he knows how I feel? That seems too risky; he may think I don’t care enough. Do I leave out all the folded handwritten notes about how I can see a future with him, how I feel something I haven’t felt before, how I’m scared to lose him, how I hope his expectations for us mirror my own? Or would that leave me too exposed? For a fleeting moment this morning I considered nixing any and all writing that had anything to do with relationships: poems, blogs, essays. Even those that aren’t about him or anyone in particular. Clearly I decided against that. Perhaps, whenever I get those essays in it published, I should have one especially for him, so he knows what he’s always meant to me. Until then, maybe I’ll just keep my writing under wraps. After all, “I’m an artist, and I’m sensitive about my shit.”

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