Normally I use this space to deny responsibility for things, but I don’t think I’m going to get away with it this time.
The starting point:
I envy people who journal. I’ve always thought it must be a splendid way of expressing and exploring one’s feelings and thoughts. Blogging is related but it’s not as personal. More accurately, it’s personal but it’s not interior or confessional. Confessional writing tends either to bore me or make me uncomfortable. I took a class once called something like ‘turning the personal into stories’ but the results were a lot of fairly appalling stories about rapes and cruelties that had been experienced by the participants. I have to admit that I prefer the slightly cooler atmosphere of blogging. Another important plus about blogging, for me, is that I know someone may actually read what I’m writing. (Having an audience apparently matters to me, Dr. Freud.) But there are things I’d like to write about more privately, and yet interestingly, puzzlingly I literally cannot write one word if I’m only writing for myself. Near-physical writer’s block. A juicy conundrum, eh? Some writers, some of whom blog, don’t seem to have any trouble writing very personally. I wonder if they are less fearful and I more so about something and, if so, what that something is. Or if the issue is something else altogether.
There’s some overlap, but over at my place, the sort-of-weekly Vent series … is more journal-like, while the daily blog stuff is, well, bloggier.
Apparently this bifurcation of mine she deemed to be the solution; for now, from the same writer, there is The Dust-Up, which will indeed be more personal and less bloggy. And if that name sounds vaguely familiar, I suppose you can blame me.