Two weeks ago, in a cocktail bar, I met a boy. A friend of a friend. I’d met him before (although briefly) on several other occasions (I sat next to him at a screening of The Goonies, once) but I didn’t really know him, I’d never really had a conversation with him. It’s pretty safe to say that while I knew his face, I didn’t at all know this person.

So there’s this boy that I don’t really know and he tells me that he’s read my blog. Apparently, quite a lot of it.

My brain immediately flicks back to all the stuff I’ve written at rarg. The break up with The Ex. Moving from one hated job to a brilliant one. Loosing friends. Starting companies. The 365 Project. Ending client relationships. The Square. Sex. Starting The List. The adventures at the bar. Adventures anywhere. There is about two years of juicy, intimate details right there, ready for a stranger to help themselves to.

I asked him what he’d read, and even before he answered I decided I didn’t really care what he’d read. That I was okay with what I’d written being public domain. Knowing that mostly, the last six months have been super emotional, super mad, and knowing that this was the way I figured things out, found clarity, and gained the support I got and still get from people was by making all that emotional muddle public. Was worth strangers knowing how I felt about my ex and our break up. How I felt about being single, and meeting new people and dancing those really ridiculous dating dances. About all the insecurities and outbursts and personal growth. Fuck it, really. I posted it all, and generally I was fine with that.

Then he got all vague and said he’d read ‘enough’. That was what I’d posted was brave, and honest and that was rare. He didn’t make any comments about my life, about what I written, about how I was feeling or the decisions I’d made. And that was enough to make me curious. That he wanted me to know that he’d read the intimate details about my life, but didn’t want to discuss them with me. He said he didn’t want to make me self-conscious. Curious.

So today, I went and re-read the last six months worth of posts.

And with a new perspective, I protected half of them. (If you’re curious too, email me and I’ll supply the password).

Last week I wrote post about stepping back, and taking time to figure things out (its the post with the whoopie cushion photo. Oh yeah, you remember that one.). I think this ties in nicely with this. Those old posts were a brilliant avenue for support and self-discovery. People from all over the place reached out and helped me find my feet, because I wrote so openly about what I felt. It was helpful for understanding what I felt, finding clarity in what I wanted, who I wanted to be and why.

But I’m on my feet now. I know what I want. And why. Mostly, I’ve figured some things out.

I think I’ll always blog about my life in some way or another (heres why) but like I said last week, I think I’m going to take a step back and hold some of these precious melodramtic moments for me.

And I think that’s less me being self-conscious. I’ll always be willing to talk openly and honestly about my past, with whoever. I think its more about me being a place that’s different from then. About being able to sit at a cocktail bar with a boy I don’t know, and have him not dance around knowing the intimate details of my past.

So, the last week or two has mostly been posts of moments. Museum visits. Kelly Tarltons. Nice happy, incredibly distant, less intimate posts about the adventures I’ve been part of.

And I met up with a friend who said, in passing, ‘pfft, that isn’t you, with your posts with no weight. You’re more than just pretty pictures, you know. That’s why people read what you write’.

Really? Do you really read what I write because I spill those intimate details, share the drama, and post videos of the tears I shed? Really?

I guess what I’m trying to say here, is that I’m still figuring it out. Writing posts with no substance is kind of difficult. And I’ll loose enthusiasm for blogging that way. In saying that, I’d prefer cute boys in cocktail bars asked me about my life, rather than read it from the internet. So where’s the line between what’s postable, and what’s not, hey?

What’s your rule of thumb?