Almost Famous

It's happened enough times now that I can see it coming.

Someone at the park, or in the checkout lane, keeps looking at me, then looking away. They're thinking about saying something. Then thinking they won't. But then they might.

The first few times it happened, I thought maybe there was spinach in my teeth, or I had come unbuttoned somewhere. After all, I am a person who routinely discovers my t-shirt has been inside out all day. It would be nice if someone would intervene before lunchtime.

Finally, they take a step forward. Usually they are blushing. And they always smile.

"I hope you don't think this is weird, but..."

"I feel weird telling you this, but..."

"I have a confession to make..."

Here it comes.

...I've been reading your blog."

Last night, I went to my kids' school picnic, where there were at least half a dozen self-professed daily readers of Notes, and judging by a few stolen glances, I'm guessing several more who are keeping it on the down-low for now.

Unless I had spinach between my teeth or was wearing something backwards.

Most of these are people I have no prior relationship with, other than the fact that our kids go to school together. They are ALL people I've admired in passing for one reason or another: for being organized, pretty, funny, clever or kind. I'm the one who should be saying, "God! I hope you don't think I'm weird!"

Apart from the fact that it's killing my small talk game at public gatherings (they've read it all already on the blog—I've got nothing left), it's thrilling for me when someone delurks in person. I'm always astonished and humbled. Please don't ever feel weird letting me know you're out there. Unless you are on my doorstep, and you are weird.

Patrick teases me that I'm becoming a "local personality." This is not nearly as famous as "local celebrity." I am still not as recognizable as, say, the local late night weather guy or the city paper movie critic. But it's possible I am on track to be invited to judge a county fair pie contest someday. Barring scandal.

It's mostly all wonderful, this overspill from the blog into my offline life. But a little overwhelming at times, too. It's a strange thing to talk to someone who knows so much about me, and to know so little about them. And the Sally Fields part of me that is so gratified and excited to learn someone likes me—they really like me—is the part that worries they might not like the next thing I write.

I'm sure it happens. Someone comes here because a friend sent them something I wrote that they found inspirational; then they are turned off when I use a strong word to express a strong emotion. Or they came here for something I wrote that was funny and irreverent, and don't know what to think when I mention that I'm a church-going Christian. I might go off on a rant or a rave that offends their own, most deeply held values, and they take it personally. Or they just get bored with me.

It's okay, I tell myself. That's part of being a writer. Readers and recognition is what I've worked for. Time to put my big girl underpants on.

If things continue the way they are going behind the scenes here at Notes, the public part of my life is going to get a lot more public in the next few years. So I'm grateful for these opportunities to practice getting pride and fear into manageable proportions.

Of course, not everyone I encounter offline is a fan. While some of my friends are enthusiastic readers, others don't know what to think. One of my very closest and dearest friends has never read this blog, though she is unfailingly supportive of me and my writing. The internet is just not her thing.

Some don't get it. Some don't like it. One or two still think this is just something I do instead of my "real" writing.

Some want to talk about the blog, and it's all others can do to keep their eyes from rolling back into their heads when I say the word. You'd think I'd spit up a half-eaten canape into my cocktail napkin and showed it to them.

"Here, how do you like my BLLLAAAAGHHHH...?"

Sometimes they can't make out the line I draw between public and private, and they worry that something they do or say might fall on the public side. The more public things get, the more I try to err on the side of caution with this. But still, as one friend confided in me recently, it's a bit like travelling with a member of the press.

Those reactions are all understandable. I don't know exactly what it is or where it's all going either. Some days, I wonder what I've gotten myself into, and what it will cost me. Some days, I feel like I'm wearing my whole life inside out.

And then one of you comes over, blushing, smiling, and says,

"I hope you don't think I'm weird but..."

And I smile all the way home, spinach teeth and all. Thank you.