Comeback post. Fail.

As a professional writer, I have quickly had to learn not to take negative feedback personally. I openly ask my clients to tell me whether the tone I have used, whether the words I have chosen are the right ones for their needs. In our correspondence, I usually say: “Tell me what you hate and I’ll change it.” It works well. They’re happy and my ego remains intact.

As a personal blogger, the same learning curve has been steeper. It’s a challenge not to take comments personally. After all, these aren’t about style but rather about content. And when the content is gut wrenching personal, well, it takes a certain type of backbone not to care. But I have learned that when it comes to spilling my truths; sometimes I get it wrong. I don’t express it clearly enough. I am misunderstood. Or rather because I choose to expose a narrow version of my life, I misrepresent myself.

The letter I wrote in the post below was not received in the spirit I had intended. Hope’s comeback post to the blogosphere was an epic failure.

Besides the crickets that reverberated across my blog’s walls I also received two comments that first confused me and then hurt me.

My intentions were to show a fleeting moment of emotion. In my first hand experience (and second hard experience) of relationships, I have observed that there are some past flames that months, even years later still manage to unnerve us. We run into them on an arbitrary day that has been pleasantly wonderful. We run into them and without any warning our minds flood with old emotions; as if not a single day has passed.They are different yet they are the same. That grip they had on you is not there anymore but if you wanted to, you could dream. You could fall in love with them again. For they are still the same and because they are still the same you think, ‘I could be with this person’. It is night and it is cold and you are wearing your favourite jeans and reality and practicality are slaves to the day.

My intentions were to show what that short emotional journey could look and sound like; a completely private inner turmoil between head and heart.  I had hoped that someone out there could relate to that.

In the absence of that, I keep having to remind myself that the fact that I need to explain all of this now only means that I failed as a writer; I did not fail as a human being.

This month on Running In Heels…

…I interview a young and fabulous Greek designer.

…I enlighten the non-blog reading masses on the joys of RSS.

…I gush about PostSecret

and finally, I sneak in a typical Hope Dies Last kind of post. It’s all about horoscopes and boys and life and love and destiny and stuff. Consider that my post for today!

Please, if you could be so kind,  check them out. Last month my articles made it to the most read list. And I am pretty certain I have all of you to thank for that. So thank you. Really.

Now, go!

Blush

I remember the good ol’ days when all I would think about was blogging.

I would compose blog posts in my head, in the shower, while driving, on the back of receipts while standing in line at the supermarket. Nowadays, I have a writer’s notebook. And in it, I write. The need to share my writing has waned. Because my need to expose myself has waned. As much as I would like to be the kind of blogger that posts every day about anything and everything, I can’t be. When I sit down to write, even fiction, it is always those inner, inner thoughts about fears and love and relationships and truth and death and meaning.

I don’t do small talk (Well, I do but it makes me uncomfortable) so, I’d rather not post about small things. (Even though I have opinions about all of that lovely stuff like my insane obsession with Jon Stewart and leggings)

The truth is that I’m embarrassed.

In July, I honestly believed that I had found The One. And I blogged about it in the way that I have always done. With absolute abandon and no regard to the future. But I swear I was certain. I was convinced that this blog was about to evolve from single girl to attached girl. That its very name ‘Hope Dies Last’ would finally be a source of real and documented inspiration.

But then it all blew up in my face.

And for the very first time in my blogging experience I was utterly and completely mortified.

What on earth possessed me to share yet another romance and the subsequent rejection to the masses? How many times do my readers really need to read the same exact experience? And oh my god, in the last three years, I seem to be having the same exact experience over and over again; with four different men.

I’ve always maintained that I’m not that fussed about the impression that I give people; on and off line. But this time, for unclear reasons, I gave a damn. I was embarrassed by this rejection. And I didn’t want to write about it because I was embarrassed. But it was the only thing I wanted to write about. And so I just stopped writing.

I’m still a little red around the cheeks. But I think its time that I jumped back on the metaphorical horse and be the blogger that I was; the blogger that I am. The only kind of blogger that I know how to be.

Doodlepalooza

In a moment of blogger camaraderie, I attempted to write my own doodle for Peter’s annual Doodlepalooza.

Check it out here.

I think it may just make you laugh.

Modal verbs

I can’t:

Decide in which direction to take this blog.  Find the right colour to paint my flat. Style my bangs. Wake up in the morning.

I can:

Make a four month old smile by simply entering the room.  Watch back to back episodes of The West Wing for the twentieth time and still feel like I’m watching for the very first time.  Believe in better days. Look like a million bucks even when–inside–I feel like a crumpled, dirty, counterfeit five euro note.

I won’t:

Let my past experiences act like predictors for the future. Lie; Fergie’s Big Girls Don’t Cry is one of my most listened to tracks on iTunes. Be broke and in debt forever. [Right?]

I will:

Eventually, get on an airplane. Buy new leggings. And new panties. [Faded and outstretched do not a femme fatale make]  Stop blaming myself for the flawed behaviour of others. Love myself.

I should:

Floss more often. Eat better.  Start Pilates again. Wear heels more often.  Probably, stop giving the evil eye to all couples I see on the street. [Bitterness is for spinsters. Not for 28-year-old, adorably neurotic women who, let's be realistic, have plenty of options left.]

I shouldn’t:

Put too much stock in Susan Miller’s prediction that October 16th marks the beginning of an exciting new era romantically.  Expect anything. Be afraid of letting the next one in.

*As seen on It’s like I’m…Magic almost four months ago.