12:25 p.m. - November 18, 2002
I don't know what to think, but I feel bad
There are many things I'd like to know more about in topics ranging from bagged baby carrots (how exactly are they peeled?) to trucks with hips, meaning the rear wheels are doubled in the extra-wide hubs (what function does this serve?). Curiosity is dampened by the same lackluster attitude I carry with me and is evident in my writing.
I've begun a new journal in a different writing enclave and yesterday wondered why it is I play angst-hopscotch, from Bigsky to Non-Descript to Something New. It is the anonymity I crave, the lack of expectations needed to fulfill a non-plussed readership composed of just what exactly, I don't know; when I think about the people reading my (so-called) writing I think there must be some allure in witnessing mental dyspepsia that accompanies my sinking ship. Last night Bathsheba asked why I write in a public forum if my craving for anonymity is zealous and over-riding; the pat reply was how more anonymous can web-based writing be, especially if no one knows my password and my site dies when I die? The long reply is that because on some level I feel writing here is beneficial for me and so I clunk away under resistance, neither verily committing to a craft or admitting to myself the importance which writing, any writing, deserves.
Essentially, my writing is half-assed and there is no greater pet peeve. I'm disappointed in myself and thus relocated because running away has always worked for me in the past. This time around, however, I find little satisfaction and I seize upon that discomfort as positive; the dominant paradigm displays hints of being supplanted and I am all for this. Let's face it, though: Talk is cheap.
I want to invigorate my craft and rekindle the pride I once had in my writing.
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I am angry, have been for several days and rather than obfuscating I will be clear: You who write and read journals know the value of privacy and the respect it engenders, though most cyber-writers make the effort to remain anonymous, or if not obscure then often sheltered, censoring disclosure. I'm partially anonymous and while at times uncomfortable with exposure, I felt taking chances and trusting people to be equally, if not more, important. So I took the chance.
And it backfired.
One of my closest friends, one whom I have not confided in regarding Spec and that crise de conscience, knew already, having been told by a reader of this journal. This friend was hurt that she learned of what was going on in my life via a third party and essentially withdrew her friendship; I had no idea of her disappointment at being slighted and as our contact became sporadic and strained, I lost something--and I don't have much to start with. I allow very few people into my life and she was one of them, and when she took herself out I noticed the loss.
My writing is not what I did today at work and what I'm watching on television; this is me as open and unguarded as I can be (which isn't saying much) and I feel like I was pissed on. Enough so that I set up a new journal, vowed privacy and anonymity to combat malfeasance but that wouldn't do me any good at all. I would think that one who clearly needs to open up would be nurtured instead of being scuttled; monstrous naivete strikes again.
You, and you know who you are, did wrong.
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What more to say?
