I just made the decision to go through this blog and remove a whole bunch of highly personal information. So some eight or nine posts have now been trashed and only exist in my documents folder. I thought I’d feel self-censored, but I feel relieved.

I’ve written before about my weird blind spot over self-deletion; added here has been a sense of honesty: This is who I am; this is what’s happened to me; this is what my life is like now. Like many bloggers, what I’ve been posting here has also served somewhat as a journal. But now that (some) people are reading this (You Are Here), I’ve been feeling slightly naked.

The impetus for finally doing this was my Googling simply my unusual first name this morning. I pop up on the first page of hits, and I take up at least half of them for the next page or so. I’m apparently a busy little bee! I didn’t know my tweets were just plopped out there for all to see. Yeesh. And public Google+ posts are indeed public. (I think I thought it just meant everybody in all my circles, not . . . everybody.) My Klout score is 44 now, which means . . . well, something. I think it mainly means that some random people follow me on Twitter in the vain hope I’ll follow them back.

I find this disturbing.

I don’t have anything to hide particularly, but I’ve decided to start treating my public persona a little differently. Although I’ve never been the sort of shamelessly constant tell-all that many are, I now think I should at least leave out whatever I wouldn’t necessarily want the stereotypical example of a client to read without knowing me. Duh.

I hope this doesn’t disappoint; in all other ways my silver prose will remain unchanged.

Well, I hope not in one way: At the beginning of the year, I resolved to post at least once a week. Now here we are, in Week 51–and I’m thirty posts short. Cowabunga! Fail! I wouldn’t try to shamelessly sneak them all in now even if I weren’t pushing hard to finish Max, but next year, things will be different! Or at least improved.