Often, when I begin a post, I have this urge to make it a really, personal, intimate confession. I want to make it about the way I feel now, things I’m happy or unhappy with.
But I know this is not the place for it. My personal, private journal is.
I can’t understand how so many people can put so much of their life online. For the same reasons, I do not understand autobiographies.
While honestly written autobiographies can be intensely fascinating, I always wonder about the cost to the author.
Personal revelation has always taken courage, we humans are nearly not as personable as our personas. But in an age where criminals thrive on identity theft and more, I disagree with people who blog about personal lives, upload hundreds of pictures on Facebook, and generally live a public life when they don’t really have to.
There is a certain beauty in looking inward, rather than continually flowing outward. I don’t want to lose that. And in some cases I feel my fiction lets me do both: look inward and introspect, and flow outward as I write. So back to the story-writing board, and happy writing to all.