I just read an article in the NY Times by Brooklyn blogger Emily Gould about the extreme pitfalls of exposing your personal life on the web. I have rarely gotten into that kind of trouble. I was born a fiction writer, a dramatist, I spend the vast majority of my time making things up, but, a blog’s lure to chew on ‘reality’ is irresistible, especially if it is my own.
It ain’t hard. My mother just called. She is an unending source of inspiration and crack lines. In fifteen minutes, our power-chat covers my cousin Sara’s 80th birthday, calcium, constipation, and our deepest feelings (and I mean- bottom of the ocean floor deep). Based on itch in my fingers, I could weave our verbal thread into solid gold, or at least- a guffaw, but would my very private mom mind if I got into the nitty-gritty about, say, her intestinal tract? What about mine? Do you want to know the unfiltered truth??
In the masterwork AMERICAN PASTORAL, Philip Roth’s fictional writer Nathan Zuckerman advises its main character not to befriend a writer if he doesn’t want his confessions to show up in a book. Lenny Bruce said the question of his influences is absurd- he was influenced by his every waking hour. And to prove it- his real-life crew was shmeared all over his art. In the name of Chris Rock’s latest show- “No Apologies.”
Emily Gould blogged about everything and everyone, no holds barred, with no fictional veil to protect the innocent, let alone the guilty. She stood in front of the firing squad and they shot her down. One could call it a suicide. While I am rattled by her cautionary tale, I can’t help but think, nay, know that simply put: life is grist for the mill. In the name of inspiration, provocation and transformation (put that on your mirror and sniff it): nothing and no one is ever really safe.
(Sabah) Now you see her, now you don’t
FAN THE FLAMES