(Gina, you should go read it right now.)
And, very naturally, in among all that great antivice, I came across something that got me to thinking.
Oh, c’mon! You should be used to this by now.
This is what my new best frend, storymedic, wrote that tickled my neurons:
It sure does, but it also isolates. There is so little personal information on my blog that no one knows who I am, which is why I revamped my About Me with an actual photo of me. No one can connect with an anonymous author.”
This instantly made perfect sense to me. It works sort of along the same lines as fiction writing. It’s the reason why it’s fairly important to create characters that people like if you want said people to care enough to keep reading. They don’t have to be nice characters or morally upright or good looking or rich or poor or alien or Hare Krishna or afflicted with a strange disease that makes all dogs chase them. They just have to be likable.
Similarly, we bloggers really ought to have a bit of personality and it helps if that personality is not … um … repulsive.
Okay, so this is working for me so far … right up until he got to the part about the picture.
Picture? Of me?
So, I’m thinking about this really hard and I do believe that the last time somebody took a picture of me that I actually liked was about 35 years ago … give or take.
And I can tell you right now that it wouldn’t matter what you did to me or your film or your lens or your camera or your lighting. If you take a picture of me, the only way I’m going to not hate it would be if it turned out to be a picture of somebody else.
You might say I have some body image issues. I’m not sure if that even covers it because body image issues sort of implies that they are only issues from the neck down and that’s not the case.
It’s kind of odd because there was a time when I was quite happy with my looks. I’m not sure when I went from being “not bad” in my own eyes to being “fecking hideous.” I’m thinking it happened at some point during the final five or six years of my un-marriage.
Which says some things all by itself.
It wouldn’t even matter all that much that I had come to the conclusion that I was “fecking hiedous” if it weren’t for the fact that I care.
Nobody else does.
Eventually, I’ll post a picture. Just as soon as I find one that I hate less than I hate all the other pictures of me that exist. I will not require you to tell me how great looking I am when I do, because if you do that, I probably won’t believe you anyway.
This is another one that I’m going to have to figure out on my own. Either I’ll get gorgeous again or I’ll convince myself that it’s not important. Or both, for all I know.
Maybe I just need selfie lessons. The kind that don’t involve a phone.