A reader recently sent me an e‑mail. This was the last paragraph:
Lastly and please don’t take this as being bold, I want to keep reading and one day read that you are nothing but happy and fulfilled. I would never post a comment because I am too shy and also pretty prone to being embarrassed by people who are cooler than me (and I consider people who blog as people who are cooler then me), but many times when I read your entries I feel like I am watching a protagonist in a favourite movie or re-reading Siddhartha. Does that make any sense to you? I’m cheering you on and I’m in your corner.
It made me wonder: if she wants to read that I’m happy one day, does that mean that I’m not happy now? It forced the realization in me that the answer is no. Obviously no. Life isn’t great. But do I only write about the bad stuff? I’ve always believed that you have to suffer to create. I’m one of those, so maybe this is the case. I imagine it’s the opposite with my Tai Chi or table tennis partners, who must think my life is perfect, because of how happy I am when I’m doing those activities.
It also made me wonder how much of myself is revealed here. Someone once told me that she sees two different sides of me: one who is serious and intimidating from the things I write, and another who is easy-going and relaxed over the phone.
So what comes through in my words? Certainly not everything. But it’s the same as anything else, because it’s hard to get a total picture of someone, unless, perhaps, you spend an appropriately uncomfortable amount of time with them.