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Nov. 6th, 2001 07:36 am
A Notable Lack...
When I began this journal, I wanted it to be three things, in roughly equal measure: Serious commentary on the world and its people; silly nonsense, and humor.
Lately it's become entirely too much silly nonsense.
One of the things I'm most proud of is the power of my words. My nonfiction writing is, even if I do say so myself, utterly fantastic when I connect my heart to my hands and let the words fly. I've watched people break into tears reading some of my stuff. I know I have power as a writer, at least of non fiction.
But lately all I seem to be able to post are silly surveys. Sure, those things are fun, but what happened to my writing? It isn't a lack of ideas... nearly every day I see something I feel warrants commentary. I just don't do it.
It's easier, you see, to simply regurgitate the newest Internet joke/survey/whatever than it is to write down the bare, naked thoughts swirling around in my head. And it's less painful, too -- sometimes, I think some of my thoughts shouldn't be exposed, shouldn't be brought into the open. For I am not what people think I am, not completely. There are things I think, things I feel, I've never brought out in the open except to one or two people. And doing so might cause some fights. Because not everything I think is nice.
This merits thought. This is my journal. Who am I writing for, you, or me? If me, then why do I care if I offend you? You chose to come here, and no one forces you to do so. So why do I not post my true thoughts and never mind who doesn't like them?
Because, at heart, I'm just too damned nice. I don't want to hurt people, and regardless of my affection for them, some of the things I think would hurt some of the people I associate with regularly, both friends and acquaintances.
OK, so that explains why I don't post those things. But why do I not post more about the rest of the planet?
Lately it's become entirely too much silly nonsense.
One of the things I'm most proud of is the power of my words. My nonfiction writing is, even if I do say so myself, utterly fantastic when I connect my heart to my hands and let the words fly. I've watched people break into tears reading some of my stuff. I know I have power as a writer, at least of non fiction.
But lately all I seem to be able to post are silly surveys. Sure, those things are fun, but what happened to my writing? It isn't a lack of ideas... nearly every day I see something I feel warrants commentary. I just don't do it.
It's easier, you see, to simply regurgitate the newest Internet joke/survey/whatever than it is to write down the bare, naked thoughts swirling around in my head. And it's less painful, too -- sometimes, I think some of my thoughts shouldn't be exposed, shouldn't be brought into the open. For I am not what people think I am, not completely. There are things I think, things I feel, I've never brought out in the open except to one or two people. And doing so might cause some fights. Because not everything I think is nice.
This merits thought. This is my journal. Who am I writing for, you, or me? If me, then why do I care if I offend you? You chose to come here, and no one forces you to do so. So why do I not post my true thoughts and never mind who doesn't like them?
Because, at heart, I'm just too damned nice. I don't want to hurt people, and regardless of my affection for them, some of the things I think would hurt some of the people I associate with regularly, both friends and acquaintances.
OK, so that explains why I don't post those things. But why do I not post more about the rest of the planet?
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