Someone worked something out about me very recently. Just from reading my words. I felt very chuffed, as isn’t that all writers want, really? To be found out? For someone somewhere to pick up all the clues you have been leaving lying around, and to make them into something meaningful?
It also left me feeling a bit vulnerable. Now I realise that writing here, in public, means people might get to actually see me. Foucault said he wrote ‘in order to have no face’. And that one statement is what has spurred me on in writing Foucault’s Daughter. I am giving Foucault a face. The fact it is one he probably wouldn’t recognise or like, is part of my point. If you don’t want others to make stuff up about who you are, you might have to tell us more clearly yourself.
And in a linked situation, but slightly removed, I have been wanting to write something. But in such a way that nobody would be able to interpret or recognise it at all. I wanted I suppose the luxury of a secret diary but I think those days are long gone. For me at least. Nothing means anything till it is ‘published’, tweeted, blogged, facebooked.
I thought maybe I could hide what I wanted to say by using a code or writing with no punctuation or use bad grammar so if I slipped in what I really wanted to say nobody would be bothered to try and decipher it or make sense of the jumble of words but I am a bit of a grammar nazi and it just doesn’t suit me writing stream of consciousness I end up writing about writing itself and forgetting what I wanted to say I think though I wanted to say dont worry I wont encroach on your precious space I dont mean to anyway in the way I do what I do it is the fortress of you that makes me like you in the first place why would i try to knock it down?
But someone rumbled me and I was glad.