I’ve resisted being here, in this moment, writing this post. Deep down, I’ve desired it – another venue to express the ongoing dialogue ravaging my ever-shifting neural pathways. An outlet, a place to yell at the top of my lungs and to be quiet & contemplative. But being here also means that I must acknowledge the egoism inherent in exposition. Writing a blog, a public journal, begs the question of whether journaling is ever, has ever been, private. Is it possible that my 13-year-old self scrawling in my journal had a sense that I was writing for someone else’s eyes? I’ve since trashed the journals of my adolescence (who wants to carry that kind of baggage around?). But I question whether every writer has, in the back of her mind, the knowledge that once a word is on paper, it is inherently public. In this case, “online journaling” seems to call attention to the public nature of the written word. It slaps in the face any convention that writing can be a private endeavor.
I’m digressing already. Man, off to a bad start here. Where was I? Ego…right…I have one. We all do. I’ve tried to deny this in the past. It’s essentially unbecoming. The more you try to stave off egoism, the more people seem to find you egotistical. It’s all very circular. I guess there is a part of me that’s remained convicted to the notion that to purposefully write in a public forum is subscribing to the masturbation of the ego. A form of masturbation I vehemently wanted to avoid: “Let’s see how many awesome actuations of alliteration I can achieve in another affront of the english language. Man, I feel good about myself. I’m awesome. I wonder how many people will read this. I better go count…” Gross.
So let’s be clear. That’s not why I’m here. But I do acknowledge my ego’s part in all of this. Being here is decidedly an exploration for me. “Let’s see where this pathway goes…” Basically, I’m a writer (you have no idea how long it’s taken me to identify myself as a writer despite that I’ve been writing for over 20 years. It still makes me a little uncomfortable. I’m probably blotchy and red. This happens when I’m nervous. Thank goodness you can’t see me.) Let’s try again: I like to write. I write stuff sometimes. I write.
Historically, I wrote in my journal. From the age of 13 – 18 it was classic teen artsy-angst that I felt was unique and brazen and gently brilliant and insightful all at once. I fantasized about the postmortem discovery of my journals whereby my deepest and most mysterious thought patterns would be eloquently revealed with a following collective “ah ha” moment for all those whose lives were intertwined with mine. Let’s be honest, an ongoing monologue of the life and times of the teenage me is absolutely as un-fascinating as it gets. Hence, when I attempted to shuffle through these journals in the last year I cringed and felt a little nauseous when I considered the idea that someone – ANYone might ever read the revealing profane thoughts of my adolescent self. So being here is a little daunting – people are going to read this crap? Who am I doing this for anyways? I’ve had this blog since July and I’ve yet to “go public” with it. It’s almost November. The fear of rejection prevails. So I’ve made myself a few rules:
1) If I’m not writing for me then I don’t write. This comes with the acknowledgement that there is inherent publicity in this manner of writing, but that I”m not here to “wow” a crowd. I’m here for my own self-preservation.
2) If no one reads this but me, that’s okay. Might even be great.
3) Get over yourself. That’s directed at me, not you. I’m here to get over myself through self-expression. Everyone unloads into the universe in different ways. This is going to be one of my ways.
4) Delusions of grandeur be gone.
5) Have fun. This is a general life goal of mine these days so I’m attempting to apply it to anything and everything I do.
Welcome to my space.