I've been keeping a diary ever since I was a little girl in the 4th grade.I have something crazy like 22 hardbound books, full of the chronicles of my life.
I wrote it all for the 90-year-old woman in a rocking chair who decides to go back and live her life once more. Everything that I wanted to remember, I penned.
After about 4 years of writing, I made a promise to that elderly woman. I promised her that I would not make her relive the unhappy moments of her life. So, as hard as it was, I never wrote about anything that bothered me or made me sad. I left things out for the purposes of forgetting, and--for the most part--the technique brilliantly worked.
In 2006, I closed my book and put away my pen and took up my laptop instead. It wasn't a conscious effort, though. For the first full year of blogging, I was disappointed with myself for neglecting my diary. But eventually I realized that I had been writing in my diary all along. I had never stopped; it was just that the form of my diary was no longer a recognizable leather-bound book but instead text on a screen made of thousands of pixels.
My voice had changed a bit, too. I was writing for the entertainment of more than just the old woman, and I wrote about topics that came into my mind instead of giving an account of my life. And I had developed a quite a following of loyal readers who seemed to like my brain candy. At its peak, I averaged 40 hits a day.
By 2008, I didn't like what I was writing. In an effort to be witty, I had also become sarcastic. And so, after a brief time of not writing at all, I chose a new location (this one), and decided to be less pretentious.
Instead of attempting to blog about entertaining topics, I would chronicle my ordinary life again, and although my voice would not be as private as it once was when it hid between the pages of a book, at least I was writing for the old woman again.
But in all of this, I had forgotten my fundamental promise to the old woman. And I know precisely why I did. Someone whom I respect had told me that I should not be afraid to write about my sadness because--in my vulnerability--I would appeal to the heart of my reader, and thus make him or her relate to and trust me. I would be more real, more convincing.
Doing this was not easy at first, since I had been so used to keeping silent about my sadness, and--for the most part--I still somewhat do, lest I disenchant anyone, worst of all myself.
But I did it and then got used to it, and here we are tonight.
So I was going to tell you how very alone I feel, not so much because I'm single, but more so because I feel like I'm the only one left who's holding certain ideals anymore. And perhaps I should just come right out and say it--although probably you can just guess--and I suppose I ought to be at least a little private about my own life, anyhow. But whatever. I've been thinking about this sad topic for hours, and now I don't even feel like writing about it. *sigh*
What I do feel like thinking about is whether or not I should keep my promise to the old woman. Maybe the old woman will want truth more than fluff. Maybe she will want to read of both my happiness and my sadness because she will be wise enough to know that a good life has a little bit of both.
