In which I beg for tablescraps

Some days I feel pathetic. I feel like a puppy dog with big eyes begging for scraps and, more importantly, a pat on the head. I usually feel this way after I've finished something. I so desperately want praise for it, for someone to like, and to tell me it's a good job. My own praise doesn't really do it- I don't really believe myself. Mind you, I don't really believe anyone else, either, but I still want to hear kind words. When I post stuff on writing sites, I go back over and over again within the first few hours waiting for comments. Heck, even if I'm just posting comments, or giving someone the answer to a question, I wait around to be patted on the head. Good doggie. And I feel pathetic, but I do it all the same. But for all that, I don't want people looking at something I'm not ready to put out there. Finding a good time to post is hard, because I don't want anyone reading over my shoulder while I'm typing. Telling me what I should or shouldn't put down. Telling me I should or shouldn't feel a certain way about something. And those two things are probably related. Probably part of the "I didn't get it right, did I?" syndrome. So this is all about what I want to say, how I want to say it, and who cares what anyone else things about it, right? Well, hopefully that will be true eventually. I don't know if that's true now, because I still have the puppy-dog aspect to it all- I want someone to pat me on the head and say "Good stream of consciousness there" I avoid posting to blogs because in my heart of hearts, I believe I really don't have anything interesting to say to anyone. Probably all comes down to the fact no one ever acted as if I had anything interesting to say for most of my life. It's a hard habit of mind to escape. But for years, I never bothered finishing sentences under the assumption that I wouldn't get the chance to anyway- someone would interrupt with a "more important" thought. And maybe that's why I can't finish stories. I can't finish them because, in my heart, I believe no one but me wants to read them. That someone will come along with a more important book and make mine look stupid. Like in the end, it doesn't matter. So what to do about all this? Who knows. It's there, it's in the open, and everyone who reads this will either pat me on the head or tell me I'm stupid, or just sit there and say "Gee, I feel that way too," or hundred of other possible reactions. And I'll probably never know. I think the reason I'm putting these thoughts where they can be read, but (unless I spread this link more than I have) are very unlikely to be read, is because that way I can just cater to my innate knowledge that yes, the world could read this if it wants to. Even if they don't. I've never been able to keep up diaries because, well, I've always assumed that no matter how private I try to keep them, someone will read them anyway. So maybe I'll do better just assuming that from the beginning. Or maybe I won't. But at least I'm churning down words, and really, in the end, that's my main goal for this. If some underbrush gets cleared out of the way at the same time, so much the better. But I still need to find some time for this when no one can read over my shoulder. I won't have it shot down before it's put down by anyone but me.
So there.