On Writing, On Blogging
Public. Private. Real. Imagined. I’m born to be contrary.
The line resonates, and it does because it’s true, because it embodies so much. I struggle, so much when it comes to this, blogging, writing, writing fiction, writing about my life, writing my life inside my head: living my life. It should all be the same thing, but it never is, never. In Personality there are countless theories, theories of identity and layers of consciousness and social perception and self motivation, there are experiments and beautiful ideas that just can’t be true, absurd definitives, things that just sound about right but it certainly can’t be right. Not really.
I haven’t been blogging, as is inevitable when I get serious about a blog. I get excited about new projects very readily, and I attack it with enthusiasm, dedication. After a little while though, it loses its gloss, its glimmer. I forget–I get attached to everything else. Especially with blogs. God, I can’t even remember ever single blog I’ve had, the topics, the angst, stemming from old livejournals and xangas in which I recounted useless details of my everyday life to a mp3 blog that just turned into an endless release of PR description, attempts at gaining more visitors and links and that whole vicious feed cycle. I started this blog because I wanted a change, something truer, something that was about the writing, the words, not marketing the next It artists. It’s always about the writing, really. When I blog I write better. I’m writing for an audience, except, at the start, I didn’t.
I wrote and wanted to keep it private. I write better when my words are displayed on an aesthetically matched site, I like seeing them, I like the idea of them, beautiful, published, complete for consumption.
And I am different when I write. I am different in different styles of writing, and I know, I have so many, I’ve played them all. There is the optimistic, sweet and inspiring blogger, there is the snarky pop culture/music critic observer, there is the serious, poetic and lyrical thought, there is the descriptive for the sake of descriptive, the anecdotal (turning my life into stories, my favorite thing in the whole world), the journalist, the novelist. And I can accomplish each, for myself, for an audience, for another site.
But it’s only occasionally that I dare to write with truth, with emotion. In fiction, I can do it, I do it well, I do it because I speak for my characters, and they’re not afraid to feel. But then there are things like this and this, and it’s truer than most things, it’s not about an image (or maybe it is, it always), it’s not about an ideal. It’s emotion that’s too raw for me to admit. On the page, it’s not me, it’s a character, a character with my life, my sensibilities. But it’s indescribable, you know? In Real Life I’m far from sentimental. Really far.
Just because it’s writing does it make it not real? Just because it sounds more romantic on the page does it mean it couldn’t have been as beautiful when it happened? The world is simply what we perceive it to be, isn’t it?
So maybe it’s a defense mechanism. Maybe the reality and disappointments of the world outside these letters makes me afraid to admit to anything. In this world I can create and maintain absolutely anything, but the world outside doesn’t work exactly as I want it to. It’s a never ending balancing act, and I wonder if I’ll ever master it.
Perhaps, perhaps not. But it seems a bit silly to pretend that my other world, this inner world of thoughts and emotions that are far darker and deeper than my persistent optimism doesn’t truly exist. And I suppose I wouldn’t be a writer if I didn’t lust after recognition, wouldn’t be writing anything outside of a journal if I didn’t hope for readers and connections. So I guess I shouldn’t be so preoccupied, with what this blog should be or what I should feel. And stick with writing, my multiple personalities, and everything.