My blog is drawing in, it appears, a lot more readers these days. Some days more than others, and without comments or feedback, there's no indication why that is--although, as I wrote to a fellow blogger, this morning, the huge jump in readership while I was away in hospital might be because of morbid curiosity--that maybe some tout somewhere was taking bets on whether I'd make it out of hospital alive or not, and people were checking to see if I would indeed come back, ha-ha.

But, with me, this sudden and drastic increase in readership, also means a sudden drop in my comfort level as a relatively unknown, and totally obscure blogger. When it comes to blogging, I like obscure.

That's because when I'm comfortable in the feeling that most people reading my blogs don't know me--barring several good friends---have no real connection to me--I can be comfortable with just being myself--whether the mood of the moment is depressed, worried, angry, scared, silly, pensive, content, whatever...I don't worry about how I sounded or how the public perceived me. I just wrote. I never obsessed or stressed over whether anyone reading my blog liked my writing or not, or was interested in what I had to say.
And I don't want to do that. I don't like worrying about what people think of me or my writing--at least, not with blogging.

When I used to keep a daily journal, all those years ago, I wrote in the knowledge that no one (barring my mum) would ever read it. Mostly, back then, I wrote a lot of pastoral, transcendental-ish gobblety gook, but even when I was writing about the difficult times, I knew I could say whatever I wanted, without feeling discomfort of any sort.

I'm losing that comfort zone, now.

This sudden influx of readers has me quite flummoxed. I honestly don't know what to make of it. It's not like I'm writing about anything important or earth-shattering.

My creative works--my Dr Who fan fiction, my daft little poems--aren't anything special. I'm merely an average writer. I'll never be asked to write a book, or a script or anything like that. Over five years of college--a lifetime of reading, as well--I've read my share of good writing. I'm average, pretty much. And, that's really okay. I'm totally okay with that. It wasn't meant to be, as I am now acutely aware of. And honest--that's okay. I'd accepted that months and months ago.

I am always pleased when someone writes me that he or she likes my writing. But, that said, when I weigh my stuff alongside the work of others--professional writers--I do see the gap, that something is decidedly lacking in my work.

I didn't get to--and likely never will, at this late stage in life--finish my education in writing. Additionally, I just don't have the imagination, the life experiences, that so many other writers have had--and, perhaps, the same level of maturity, as well. I don't know. There's so many places I've never been, I don't go out much in the world--especially now, and, I've never had an intimate relationship--so I can't really write about that at all, I totally rot at plotting, I am, by my own admission, a bit of a simpleton--don't have this great, broad imagination that other writers have.

Story ideas don't often come easy to me. I never was much use at abstract thinking--oh, I've tried, but, truth to tell, I really am just a plain dull person. I live in a box, so thinking outside it is a bit hard for me. In a nutshell, as a writer, I've just got a lot of limitations, and that's a serious handicap--especially if one wants to be successful.

So, I'm a bit perplexed as to why my blog stats have been rising over the last several months. My life isn't interesting--when I showed my life in pics the other day on my blog--work, grocery store, laundromat, apartment---that really IS my whole life. I seldom leave that world. I really haven't been out of this tiny little city in over 6 months...I mean, that in 6 months, I've not traveled more than 2 or 3 miles from this apartment--no joke--really, it's 100% true!

So I'm left at a loss over what's so interesting about my blog, to attract hundreds of readers--morbid curiousity--will she live or will she die, will she continue to live here or will she be homeless? Or...I don't know. I find this just...odd. The writer in me is pleased to be read, but the human side of me, is a bit--perplexed, and, getting a little uncomfortable...can't say why, exactly--other than the privacy worry, of course. But there you have it. That's how I feel.