Discreet. I like that word. In my mind I still partly live in my mother’s world of short white gloves, hats and stockings, a world which was starting to crumble just as I was old enough to enter it.

I used to be very averse to exposing my private life to the world.  That has changed since I began blogging, and I’m not sure why.  For a long time I was embarrassed to let anyone know what I was really thinking.  The Voice of The Fathers was VERY strong in me, condemning a lot of what I did and thought, and I’ve always half-agreed with them. Of course it wasn’t The Fathers, it was my father.

ME AND MY FATHER, 1987

Now I write posts about fuck-me shoes and crude adolescent behavior on trains. I’m no longer embarrassed by my body – I”ve posted pictures of myself exercising in my underpants, and in a wetsuit like a fat black sausage. Below you’ll see me happily lumpy in a bathing suit.  At 65 I believe I’ve earned my lumps.

A friend tells me that to write memoir effectively you must be fearless. But I am not fearless.  I may seem to be baring my soul, or at least my past and my thighs, but I don’t write about my deepest sorrows or biggest regrets.  I don’t write about the thoughts and deeds I’m most ashamed of, not for lack of material, but precisely because I am ashamed.

I am more careful now about other people’s privacy than about my own.  When I write about friends or family I usually clear the piece with them. None of them has ever objected to anything I say, probably because I am still bound by ‘If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.’

I am particularly concerned about Amanda’s privacy. I keep her worries, fears, and misdemeanors to myself. I avoid writing much detail about her life, except the sunny innocuous parts. 

I recently posted two pictures of Amanda as a toddler; you couldn’t connect them to the nine-year-old she is now. I am leery of putting up contemporary pictures. I also have an ill-informed fear of the internet, and what might happen to a photo of her there, as though a stranger would track her down and harm her.  I know there are real dangers to children on the internet, but I suspect the ones I fear are not real.  Still, the Grandma in me yearns to share with the world the adorableness of this child.  So at the end of this post I’ve put up a few more baby pictures.

In fiction I have always felt obliged to make up characters.  I feel I’m cheating if I merely disguise someone I know. After I finished my third novel I wondered whether I would be a better writer if I were willing to go deeper inside myself.  I created a character based on me, though the scenes and details were imaginary.  But I found I loathed her.

I would not venture to defend any of these opinions, nor apply them to the work of other writers.  Indeed, I don’t believe they rise to the level of opinion; instead, they remain in the warm, murky waters of feeling.  They are mine, and I share them with you without any attempt to persuade.