Things that make you think twice about what you post on the internet: part one

As a professional and not-so-professional writer, I've become accustomed to working on an essay or article, submitting it and completely forgetting about it so I can move on to the next project. This is common, I'm sure, among people who write something for public consumption almost daily.

Thus, you can imagine my shock when people comment on this blog or call me at work to compliment my weekly column. Interestingly, people almost never comment on work I expect them to. I wrote a political piece for the paper about Arkansas' shitty pro-discrimination bill (call it what you will, but we all know what it is) and received one positive response and no negative; that sucks, because I was really excited about receiving criticism.

But somehow, I've had five or six readers call in to comment on a column I wrote about a man who harassed me when I was running. Though I thought it was a pretty great column, I certainly didn't expect to strike a chord the way I did. Likewise, some pieces I've blogged about have received way more hits than others. I've mostly realized that you guys love reading about farts.

On that note, I have had several experiences since beginning this blog that cemented how public my writing really is. Specifically, I have discovered that people I write about on this blog read it and that some of my throwaway writing has received confusing accolades. Examples:

• Over Christmas, I was discussing my writing projects with my mom and nana. I jokingly asked my nana if she ever read my blog (because I have written about her here and it's always with love but not always so flattering) and she said, "Every day." 
• Gideon's grandmother enjoyed my blog post about how I farted so loud in my sleep that the cat ran away in fear. She liked it so much she shared it with Gideon's extended family members when they visited. On one hand, I could be embarrassed. On the other hand, I willingly wrote about farting on a public forum. You win this one, Grandma. 
• At my college's senior party this past week, several classmates and friends told me they enjoy reading my blog. I had to pause and think if I'd written anything defamatory about them before deciding that if I had, they probably would have already thrown a drink in my face. 
• My dad's side of the family read my post about being in an abusive relationship. In all honesty, that was hard for me; I still fear being seen as weak and, more importantly, don't want my family to worry about me. 

Please don't misunderstand me; I love writing, and I love that all two or three of you enjoy reading my writing. It's just that I live in a writer's bubble, a place uninterrupted by outside noise where I can share stories about farting and accidentally drinking a glass of milk my cat already tasted without thinking too much about who will read these things. 

To be honest, I'm super flattered that even one person has taken the time to read my work. I personally find it pointless and sometimes - most of the time - meandering, so finding even a small audience is a huge accomplishment for me.

My only fear is that if I'm already sharing stories no sane person would write in a private journal, my oversharing may worsen over time. I'd say my mother might end up disowning me, but let's get real: she has two kids counting the dog, and the dog won't put her up in a fancy retirement home years from now. 

So who knows what I'll write about in coming years? I suspect my writing will focus far more on scatological humor.

I can't help but give the people what they want.