It strikes me every now and then just how odd it is to have a blog. And how reckless, in some ways.
Your name is out there. Everyone that meets you—from new friends to new employers—is free to find and read things you’ve lived, thought, and been. There’s no guarantee they’ll find something representative, or that they’ll hang around long enough to get a rounded image of you.
They might land on a vexing one-liner from a decade ago—or on a ten-page opus you wrote early some A.M. when your better judgement had gone to bed before you.
In a way, that’s thrilling. In another way, it’s at least foolish and possibly worse.
And yet here it is. And sometimes I absolutely love it. I must, after all this time.