As we know, I have not been blogging much about my latest romantic interest: you know, the one I keep mentioning on the blog as the guy-I’m-not-blogging about.
This has been for a couple of reasons. For one, I hadn’t yet told him about it.
This was not an act of deliberate concealment. I realized that, in general, the whole blog thing has come out in some sort of organic way early on. (I realized this, of course, when it did not come out in some organic way early on.) I haven’t yet had to make an official announcement (“by the way, I write a blog about this thing that we’re doing”) the way that one might, to revisit my friend D’s crass comparison, tell a potential partner about an STD.
Finally, though, it did come out. In a way, if not totally organic, not totally official either. (“It’s kinda awkward,” I told him on Friday night, over chile rellenos and mystery-meat tacos, “A student of mine left a comment on my blog!”)
He already knew I write nonfiction about relationships, which perhaps explains why he didn’t seem to be particularly shocked or traumatized by the revelation. And, so far at least, appeasing my grandmother’s fear that my blogging will drive an instant wedge between me and the possibility of intimate companionship, he seems okay with the enterprise.
Yesterday morning, while I slept in, he he got up to bake breakfast (yes, the man baked me scones and brought them to me in bed, with coffee) and then spent some time on his computer in another part of the house.
When he returned and told me what he’d been doing, I waited what felt like a triumphantly long period of time–probably around three minutes–to ask him if he’d read the blog. He fessed up.
“So? What’d you think”
“It’s well written.”
“And? Do you have any other response?”
To which he, perfectly, replied: “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
I’m not sure it’s really any better to blog about someone’s personal life when they’re aware of it than when they’re not, but it feels that way to me. So, here we are.
The other reason, though, came to me yesterday afternoon–as I lay on the couch with my head on his lap, watching an episode of 30 Rock, contemplating a fireplace and my relative comfort.
“Wow,” I thought. “Happiness is real boring.”
It’s true. A few months ago, when researching for an essay on my miniature quest to figure out what makes other people’s partnerships work, I called my newly-married college friend M. At the end of the call, she offered a small rant on why it’s hard to talk about things that are good.
“Nobody wants to listen to somebody gush about their relationship,” she said. “Stories about how everything is messed up are way more interesting than how everything is great. It’s like graduate school, it’s way easier to talk about why something is fucked than why it works.”
As a writer, this ought to be something I understand deeply: a story is only a story when there’s a conflict. When, as I tell my creative writing students, somebody wants something and other things stand in the way.
I’m sure he would agree, though, that any fretting about how to balance a blog with a reasonably positive love life would be highly premature. It’s still quite early. Obstacles may yet abound.
Which, with a certain person reading, may be more or less difficult to write about than a pleasant Saturday afternoon spent on the couch.
We’ll cross that bridge later.