the letter

Monday, July 10, 2000

I may call you "Reader", mayn't I? after all, you're reading this.

So. To begin again:

dear Reader,

It occurs to me, after all this time, that I've finally decided what I'm doing here.

I know, it should have dawned on me earlier. But, you know, sometimes you enjoy the process of doing something so much that either consciously or unconsciously, you don't think about what you're actually doing and how you're doing it.

Recently, however, there has been much thrashing about, much discussion about what an online journal is, what people like in them, what people want in them. That has all prompted me to think about what I want here, what I want this to be.

And after much floundering about, I begin to get a Clew.

Please note that the portions in italics below are summarized condensations of things that I've seen in more than one place.

I like train-wreck journals, you know? The ones where everything seems to happen to this person. It makes their lives so much more interesting.

Oh, dear.

You are aware of the old Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times", aren't you? In any event, having lived through my interesting times before I started this project (I sincerely hope and pray), chances are that you won't see train wrecks here. (Well, except for my job situation, which is sort of an ongoing minor deraillment, but that's not quite the same thing.)

I want to read genuine feelings. I like a writer who speaks their mind, who doesn't say just what they think people want to hear. I don't want to see censorship. I don't want to see a journaler that's aware of their audience.

Oh, dear.

For the first part ... well, I hope the feelings are genuine. If they're fake, I haven't told myself. And if it's here, it's what's on my mind. I may phrase it so as not to be exceptionally offensive--or I may not. Depends on what I'm saying. I won't say that I don't care if you want to hear it--after all, if I didn't care at least a little, it wouldn't be here, would it?--but it seldom makes any difference in the content of what I put up here.

As for censorship--everyone who puts an online journal on the web engages in editing and self-censorship to some degree. After all, most people don't write about every single event in their life; you don't see all the meals, all the trips to the restroom, every interaction they have with other people. Such minutiae would render even the most interesting life boring. If the writing is good and engaging, the plain fact is that unless the writer tells you, you'll never really know or think about any self-censorship that goes on.

As for being unaware of the audience ... Sorry. No can do.

The fact is, dear Reader, that I am always aware of you. I honestly don't see how it could be any other way. After all, at least to some extent, this is for you. I mean, think on this. An online journal is public writing. In many circumstances, it could be considered publication. People I don't know, people you don't know, may be reading this page at this very moment.

There are times when I'm writing when I simply don't care about the audience. Horribly crass to put it that way, but this is the truth. Usually if I'm trying to work something out, I will write and write and write, and if it's something that's important only to me, I'll put it up and not care what the reactions are. (Which implies that I normally do care about the reactions, which, again, is not entirely correct, but I'm afraid that I can't figure out how to phrase this properly. It might be most accurate to say that there are times where I don't give a rat's ass if you're entertained or amused or if you want to keep reading a particular entry. It's what I want to say, what I feel, and it's what's going up there.)

What I can't figure out is if it's at all fair to him to present this issue in an online format before I've talked about it with him. No, he wouldn't be identifiable to anyone but me and himself, and no, he's not likely ever to read this, I think. Maybe "fairness" isn't the right concept to invoke, but I'm not sure what is. It just feels wrong to talk about it here, where someone could read and comment on it, when I haven't said a word to him.
--July 23, 1999

The above passage, alone of all the highlights, is linked because it's something I said myself. And I realized that I had resolved this issue for myself, and forgotten to tell you what I'd resolved.

To wit: this journal is about me.

And you--what you bring to it, whether or not you like it, what you think of it, etc. After all, it's out there and you're reading it. It can hardly avoid being about you, in some way.

But it is not about them: my friends, my family, my significant otherage (if such a miracle should come to pass).

I don't mean that you're not going to read at all about them here; after all, they're part of my life. I may lead a relatively solitary existance, but it's not THAT solitary, thanks. I mean, let's face it: unless you're a complete and total hermit, there are other people in your life, and you talk about them. It's just the way things are. However, they ought to have the choice about whether or not their lives are going to be read by someone else. If you're not going to offer them the choice, then at the very least their lives should be so disguised that others won't know who they are. Therefore, what you read about the others in my life will be rather ... restricted. I also made the specific decision that I would never talk about someone any more than I would to a work acquaintance--that is, I might say, "Hey, I went to a movie with Y last night. We had a great time." But not more. If I have an issue I need to work out with someone, and I'm having a hard time thinking about what to do and how to do it, you'll not read it here; as I've said, it's not reasonable or fair for me to tell the world about my issues with someone before I've talked about them to that person. It's not being a good friend, a good relative, a good whatever to do so. It has the unfortunate side effect of making the interactions with people you see in the journal seem rather superficial. But ... this way, I don't have to ask each and every person I know if I can talk about them. It lets me put all this up with a relatively clear conscience.

The only exception I've made to these rules, and the only regret, however small, is with the people at Buddies. Once I'd mentioned the place by name, however, it was silly not to talk about the people by name; after all, locals would know them. That said, most of my interactions with them are fairly superficial--it's not as though I've said much that they could object to.

If I ever do achieve significant otherage, you'll not read a lot about it here ... Wait. That's the wrong way to put it. What I mean is that what I'll say about them--what I'll say about anyone, really--will be limited to the sort of thing I'd tell a moderate acquaintance. "We went out, we had a good time." (Maybe I'll say whether or not boinkage was achieved. Maybe I won't. Probably not. Depends on the other person involved. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. If we get to it. The type of boinkage, I'm relatively sure, will be left to your ever-fertile imaginations. As will the dimensions of various boinking organs.)

If it were just me involved, most of the guards would be off. But the people in my life have some reasonable expectation of privacy. I haven't asked them if I can broadcast the details of their lives to the world, and frankly, I'm not going to. I'd have to tell them that this site exists, for one thing, and I have no intention of doing that. (I mean, the possibility of my mother reading a "tales from the penis" entry frankly creeps me out big time. I mean, I'm sure she knows that I have one, but I don't want her thinking about what I may or may not be doing with it, thanks.) My friends and relatives haven't asked to be a part of this, and I don't want to have to tell them that they are. I don't want to have them discover this site--and I know, full well, that someone I know probably will, sooner or later--and get upset because I've shared details about their lives, about our lives, that they feel I had no right to discuss.

If that makes it too dull, if that means that I won't get some people to read me, then so be it. That's the price of my editorial policy (and all online journalers have one, even if the policy is not to edit out any meaningful details), as it were, and I'm willing to pay it.

So.

What the hell am I doing here, then?

Well, dear Reader, the plain fact is, I like to write.

No, let me be frank: I love to write.

And, in my fanfiction writing history, and with the journals, and with the essays and the weblog and the reviews, I've discovered something else, something I suspected but hadn't had the opportunity to realize:

I love to be read. I love it a lot. I love it more than Burger King cheeseburgers (though possibly not more than my mother's homemade chili or her spaghetti sauce or her roasts). I love hearing from you about what I wrote.

Actually, the web spoils me.

Most authors, most things they write, they never know what anyone thinks of their things, except for the odd reviewer. They seldom hear from their readers. But that's not true of web-published work, I've found. I do get a general idea of what you like, what you don't like, what sorts of things get a rise out of you. (Lust, in my experience, tends to get at least two or three responses on an entry. That and humorous non-sex stories ... which amounts to the same thing, more or less.) I must admit, the responses, all the things I hear from you ... it is addictive, in its own way. (Even when I forget to write you back.) But, no, I don't do it for the response. After all, I do put up things you won't like. (Such as, for example, this very piece.) I don't write about lust (or toilets--what IS it with toilets?) all the time, so most of the time, I don't hear a word from you. If I were doing it for the response, I'd be driving myself insane, or writing about sex and toilets all the time.

So.

What am I doing with this? What's my overall goal? What do I want out of all this?

Sometimes I want to make you think.

Sometimes I want to make you feel.

Sometimes I want to make you laugh.

Sometimes--rarely--I may want to make you all hot and bothered.

Sometimes--always--I want to share something of myself.

And always ... I want you to come back so I can do it again.

Even when I write things like this that make you want to stay way far away.

But them's the breaks.