Me Again Beasley, Take II

It didn’t take long for me to realize that my story didn’t belong under the blog title “Me Again, Beasley,” so I’ve moved to this new, more comfortable location.

“Me Again, Beasley” appeared as the subject line in a spam message once, and I always thought it would make a great band name. Given that I will never have a band, I thought it would also make a great blog name.

I was wrong.

In the process of writing one of my usual neurotic emails to a friend, she paid me what I instantly realized was the ultimate compliment for someone like me: “I love your crazy.”

She really does.

And while holding myself to the challenge of writing honestly and from the heart, I have decided that I need to, too.

It’s not such a stretch. I’ve always enjoyed my crazy. I’ve always laughed about it. Telling stories about it keeps me humble and entertained. But it’s not until my friend gave it a big, wet kiss that I realized that, more than almost anything else about me, I love my crazy the most.

The only part I love more is its diligent guardian angel — the one that swoops in to clean up the messes my crazy makes when it knocks things over, obsesses about something silly, or says something in public that would have been best not to mention.

This newly-named blog will be told from the point of view of this angel, who realizes it would not be nearly as wise, insightful, or compassionate if not for the thing we both look after as we would a small, adorable child: my crazy.

Is this thing on?

For one year, I blogged.

It was an amazing thing: I wrote, I clicked “Publish.” I posted. Instantly, I received feedback.

It would appear as though I thrive on instant feedback.

People liked what I wrote. And by “people,” I mean friends I’d given the stealthy URL to. They’d read, they’d laugh, they’d add me to their bookmarks. They’d check me out along with their other online haunts every day. Sometimes they’d comment, and I’d be elated.

Acknowledgment: for a writer, is there anything more to life than that?

That’s an interesting question, and it’s why I haven’t written publicly since I stopped posting over two years ago. Because there is more to it than that for me. The more I wrote, and the more I handed out the URL to my friends, the more I realized that what made a compelling story was honesty.But who wants to be honest when everyone you know is reading your blog?

And who wants to read a blog that’s less than honest?

I’m not like my most admired writers. I’m not David Sedaris who, with every lispy turn of phrase, throws his dysfunctional family under the bus. And I’m not Anne Lamott who, with painfully sharp and witty insight, offers up her vulnerabilities to be examined, ridiculed, and loved. I’m Madeline, a pseudonym with stories to tell — and a need for people to read them — while safely behind a firewall of privacy.

When I’m blogging, or wishing I was blogging, I notice profound things every day. And, for reasons that are beyond me, I am overwhelmed with the desperate need to tell you about these things. Why? I have. No. Idea. I don’t even know you! But I think that’s something innate in all writers: we can’t not write things down. For me, it’s a matter of recording before forgetting. Creating for others’ relating. Marking indelibly, before perishing. I record in pixels what the ancients carved in stone, only to remember and be remembered.

So there’s my first nugget of honesty. I don’t generally wear my narcissism on my sleeve.

And yet, here I am to spill my guts to you, and the rest of the English speaking world. In a way, I’m brave to bare my soul. And in another, I’m a coward to do it anonymously. Why can’t I just own my stories? Stand by them like any good friend would do, sling my arm around them, and pose for pictures?

Because then everyone would know I’m nuts. Clearly, unequivocally, gonzo-bonzo.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my neuroses like an old maid loves her cats. I celebrate them every chance I get and tell stories about them incessantly, especially while tipsy at dinner parties. Oh yes, I know how to captivate an audience while completely lacking a filter. It’s a gift.

So let’s see how this goes. This honesty in storytelling. Filters and firewalls begone! Let’s see what it feels like to say thing things that can’t be said. Let’s tell stories that need telling, without the chance of recognition, for better or worse. Let’s see if I can dig far enough, and keep quiet enough about posting, to write the way a writer should.

Openly, honestly, and in stone.