Awhile back, Jenn-ay was talking about online personas, what comprises hers, and yours, and why.
I don’t go meta very often, but I happen to be a fan of this topic of discussion, maybe because the Sociology minor in me finds it endlessly fascinating.
To be anonymous, quasi-anonymous, or not at all anonymous: that is the question.
When I first started my site in 2004 it wasn’t kerrianne.org, but I was still posting as myself and was never anonymous. In November of 2004 I switched to kerrianne.org and from then on I knew I would always use my name, my full name, and haven’t regretted it once.
I’m proud of (or at least happy with) everything I’ve written on my site, and wouldn’t post it otherwise. Some of it’s surely for laughs, silly and nonsensical, but it’s authentically me, or as authentic as I can be in front of a computer, and I stand behind everything I’ve ever published in this space.
That being said, I traditionally don’t write about work, and most likely won’t, unless it was a scenario where I was being asked, and compensated, for doing so.
Most of my family and friends know about my site, and read it on a regular basis. I’m more than fine with that because I’m the type of person who isn’t going to say anything online that I won’t say right to you, in person, too. (Though I will also admit to having a momentary panic attack when I first realized so many family members checked in so regularly. Hi! everyone.)
On the opposite end of the anonymous spectrum, sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly name-ornery, I try to find more ways to slip in the occasional “Kerri Anne” here and there on my site, so I can beat out an Australian talk show host who happens to spell her name exactly the same way I do for the top spot in the highly coveted Google Search.
Because in addition to being non-anonymous, I’m also super mature.
Some moniker-related trivia for you, for fun: “Kerri Anne” is my given name, yes, but “Anne” is technically my middle name, so certain friends call me “Kerr” or “Kerri” and certain friends and family call me “Kerri Anne.” My maternal grandmother calls me “Sweet Pea.”
So, what about you? Are you anonymous? Quasi-anonymous? Proudly non-anonymous? I’d love to know why or why not.
Also, if you haven’t ever seen the SNL skit the title of this post is referencing, I feel a little sad for you, because it was awesome, and I’d love to help you out, but I can’t a video of the skit ANYWHERE online. The Internet must have eaten it.
It was here, while waiting for my brother, that I started this story, although, of course, at the time I did not know that stories of life are often more like rivers than books. But I knew a story had begun, perhaps long ago near the sound of water. And I sensed that ahead I would meet something that would never erode so there would be a sharp turn, deep circles, a deposit, and quietness.
-from A River Runs Through It → Read more...
I posted a picture of him for a silly Instagram-related game and found him waiting for me in my dreams, something which occurs so rarely it still explodes solidly-constructed dams inside me each time I see his face, mustached and smiling at mine just the way he always did, just the way I always remember him. As usual he didn’t say much, not anything I could hear or remember, but he was there and I knew it, and when I → Read more...
I have words washed out to sea. Words ushered quietly from my lips to my fingertips, waiting patiently for the right tide, for the moon to bring my stories alive.
I have words being reviewed, words accepted and words rejected, and I’m clinging to my favorite lines, fighting for them, and it feels strange and new and exhilaratingly infuriating, this tug-of-war of wills and how the slightest bit of caving can make me feel like I’m flirting with abandoning the sanctity → Read more...
[Alternately titled: Story, The Second: The Girl Who Moved To Washington State]
It began simply. A direct message on Twitter first, followed by texts; those texts, in turn, begat plans. With those plans came anxiety and apprehension – I didn’t know you, not your face or your voice or anything else, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to – but also something exciting, a strange and unexpected hope hovering quietly on the horizon. And then we met, conversed and laughed → Read more...