I found him because a particular Redhead
The post she linked to, Getting in the Dirt, is about writing your memoirs and how vitally important it is to share secrets with your readers. He says, "you must not be afraid to share things that may make you look bad, cause others to judge you, or even harm relationships you have".
Because Lovely Readers will KNOW you're holding out.
When he said, "...the bricks that create each of us are not all made of gold. Some are shit. And we’re all a combination of both." I was struck dumb.
Because it's true.
I was so excited about this statement, I made Peej (who was over cleaning) come into my room so I could read it to her and, Peej being Peej, she had some incredible further insight. She said, "Well...that makes sense. When people want to read about a hero, they read Superman comics. They don't want Superman to be real. They want him to be perfect. If someone wants to read about someone who is like them - human and fallible - they will read Batman. Batman may be a good guy but he's human, he makes mistakes, his drive comes from an inherently human place. Readers connect with Batman because he is one of us." Or something like that anyway.
This got me thinking about why I read the blogs of so many people - everyday Janes and Joes - who aren't dispensing advice, or rattling off recipes, or recommending products but, rather, who are just talking about their lives, their thoughts, their work, their play, their struggles, their joys, their beliefs.
I read because those writers are real. And that's compelling. It makes me feel...less alone.
Melanie over at Is This the Middle posted this morning about how grateful she is for her fellow bloggers. She called us "a proud to be quirky lot". I loved that. It's true. You have to be pretty quirky to actually want to do what we do on a daily basis. And it's our very quirks that make us readable, relatable.
All of a sudden, Neil Strauss's words made sense to me, connected dots for me that hadn't been visible before. No one wants me to be perfect...except me. Everyone else wants me to be exactly as I am, as they are.
I feel as though I've been set free.