All my life, I've been a journal writer, ever since my grandma gave me my first blank book in 1976. I have filled many of these books on and off over the years. Then when I got a computer, I would make password protected journals in MS Works, burn them onto cd, and tuck them away.
Looking through my journals, I noticed a terrible trend. I was using my journals as spleen vents. All the vitriol and anger and frustration I wanted to fling on everyone around me, I poured into my journals.
Not to mention that the ones wrote in the late 70's-early 80's were downright embarrassing. God, how many crushes could one girl have?
One day, I realized, that someday I would no longer be here. What if my kids came across them? My husband? Would they understand that I was just ranting? Or would they see that I was a really terrible person that was full of hate? And I wouldn't be around to explain that my words didn't mean anything, that I was sorry for what I wrote in a fit of...well, in a fit.
So, I quit journaling. But as I have said many times, "nature abhors a vacuum". I still had a lot to say, I felt, a lot of inane thoughts, odd observations, just the everyday flotsam and jetsam that flows through my head at any given moment. Where would I put them?
I started reading other peoples' blogs, and I really enjoyed the fact that there were many others out there who maybe felt the way I did. "I have all these ideas in my head and I have to do something with them."
So, I started this blog, not really caring if anyone read it or not...which is silly to think why would someone take the time to write on a public forum, not caring if anyone read what they wrote.
Then I finished reading Alan Alda's first book, an auto-biography titled, "Never Get Your Dog Stuffed" Near the end of his book, he wrote about a conversation he had with a interviewer when his first copy of his book came in the mail. "You'll want to see your words in print", she explained when Alda just set aside his book without looking at it. He had said he had seen all the words while he was writing.
But, that's it...seeing the words in print. In my case, on a computer screen. There is a thrill to it. And for me, I don't care if I'm the only one who sees my words in print. Well, for now it doesn't. That may change someday.
I will never write a novel, nor even a short story (although I do have snippets floating through my head for a few). Blogging will do just fine for me.
And, now years to come, if my children ever fall across these blogs, they will be filled with my feelings that are softened with ideas. There will be no caustic bile to read...well, except for the occasional blog posting talking about a prymid scheme in the guise of a religion....or some other social blight that I feel moved to rant about.
Journaling, for me, was like throwing up. Blogging doesn't feel that way. It's a thought process. One has to think as how to covey a thought. It's as if I'm crafting words to create a picture. Or maybe I just give myself too much credit.
Oh, and I thoroughly enjoyed reading Alan Alda's book. He has always impressed me as an actor and as person. It also didn't hurt that he always reminded me of my dad. Which is a good thing.