Today I got not one but TWO separate requests from people to remain hereto forth anonymous in this blog.
I have the utmost respect for this choice and will rise to the challenge of somehow keeping this blog as a partial portal to my mind without revealing specific names and certain activities done therein.
Gosh, it's not going to be easy, though. :-(
But, I do understand that it must be a bit delicate for others to be friends with a girl who blogs, and such a girl is indeed responsible for guarding the privacy of others most gingerly.
And so that is what I shall do.
When I'm tempted to mention a certain name or cite a specific activity, I will tactfully refrain from both and instead summarize my experience with a simple lesson learned. Would that be OK, do you think?
I just can't stop writing. Writing is how I process my life!
I make sense of things I encounter by writing about it. I've been doing it ever since I got my first diary in the 4th grade; it's just that in 2006 I went public with 50% of my thoughts.
The public writing started for no other reason than (1) I had become a faster typer than hand-writer, and (2) I appreciated the font, layout, and graphics that one could include in a blog and not so easily incorporate into a dairy.
But blogging ended up giving me more pleasure than just that which comes from beholding a well-justified font and a smartly text-wrapped picture. I started feeling validated in my thought progressions when people started sending me email feedback, leaving comments, or putting me into their RSS feeds.
And one cannot blog without being hooked on the blogs of others. Suddenly, I found myself subscribed to friends' blogs and friends-of-friends' blogs. Reading their thoughts became more interesting to me than reading the news. In effect, I preferred personal news stories over national ones.
But all this, remember, is just half of my voice. The other 50% resides now in Diary #21, a cute little handwritten book that archives my deepest thoughts, dreams, and desires.
These volumes are to be burned when I pass away because those books are written for no audience other than myself. It's not that you'd find anything objectionable in them; it's just that they would be meaningless to anyone but me. They have zero wit and are devoid of well-formed, complex sentences. They're just a chronology of all the special events in my life that were enjoyable and thus worth remembering.
Someday, if should be so lucky to marry, of course my husband will have full access to them. But mostly they are just for me to read when I'm 90 and stuck in a chair. My plan is to relive my life again when I have just about reached the end.