It is generally accepted that even the most reasonably priced, lower-shelf novel follows the five stages of story writing : 1. exposition, 2. rising action, 3. climax, 4. falling action,5. resolution. As I have said before, my approach to this blog will probably read like a supermarket story too, although at the time of writing, I cannot confidently predict the resolution part as it feels that we are still very much in limbo, but hopefully a suitable one will emerge in time. Certainly parts 2 and 3 have been visited and revisited many times over.
I realise that this venture is another attempt on my part to make sense of the world around me and the less-travelled road I have taken, and I want to give myself permission to have “moments” when I can speak my mind without overtly dragging anyone down. I want to tell our story without making it so personal that people feel worried they may be recognised, embarrassed, implicated, identified.
I want to be openly anonymous.
Or anonymously open?
There are already some people who read this that know me as “Alice” from my other blog, “Alice Through the Macro Lens.” I have always tried to maintain a level of anonymity – mainly because some of my blog posts are quite personal, occasionally deep, rarely profound, and a bit too raw for me to be comfortably placing myself in the public eye. I haven’t been entirely successful at the covert thing, as you’ll see by a recent post on ATTML (click here if you want to read it). Those people now know I know they know about me … and quite frankly, since bleeding me dry for every drop of information I could ever give them, there’s little I could add on here that would come as a surprise to them – and nothing that would make a lick of difference to any future outcomes.
But, for the most part, I would hope than even my not-so-fail-safe attempt at anonymity will protect the innocent.
So, chances are, my name isn’t really Alice … unless of course I’m double-bluffing. Similarly, for comfort’s sake, I realise I should give my son a pseudoname rather than saying “my son” all the time. When I thought about renaming him, a particular song kept rolling round in my head, probably because it was chosen as one of Ricky Wilson’s songs in Tracks of my Years on Radio 2 yesterday morning and it gave me a chuckle. So, apologies for any misrepresentations to Johnny Cash, but from now on my son will be known as “a boy named Boo.” (Even I wouldn’t be so cruel as to name him Sue!)
PS: Anyone/anyplace else that crops up in passing will also remain similarly camouflaged.