Diaries. This new magical world of bloggers is full of people writing about their lives to anyone wishing to read. I am not sure whether I should do this too. Or why on earth I should be doing it in English? That begs the question "who am I writing to?" and "Why exactly am I writing?". Aren't diaries supposed to be secret?
They didn't use to be - once upon the time. No more than letters were meant for the eyes of the receiver alone. But then they became secret, places of inner contemplation. Now, it seems, we are writing again for others. We are perhaps seeing ourselves in others. I've been browsing again, you see, when I should be reading pre-modern legal history. I've been reading other people's blogs - not too many, just two actually.
The other one I read yesterday - because something I had written was quoted there. That made me a touch proud, but - havind read some of the other entries - also a touch restless. It made me question whether there was any sense in what I was writing. Is it complete rubbish? No-one is reading it, so it can't be terribly good. And if it did happen to be good - what I write so generally, not Margyarad as such, the Confessions maybe - is there any point in writing for a blog? Maybe, if one takes it as practise. Then again, maybe not. And is there any point in writing what I write. My diluted emotions hidden behind half-fictional characters. Wouldn't it be more honest to just write a diary - like this one with that idiotic title, which clearly proves that sometimes my brains just don't function. Not even pretend to be writing fiction, but just write these ramblings as they are: my life, my thoughts, my attempts to make sense of it. Then, perhaps, fiction would be more clearly fiction too and not my life hidden between the lines.
The other blog I read just an hour or two ago. Some woman from Texas, 25, I can't even remember her name anymore. She was complaining about life and if she would have allowed anonymous commenting, I would have left her one. One likes it when other people acknowledge your existence - I do anyway. She was complaining, yet it didn't sound like whining, moaning. I have problems with that, whining. And her life sounded so familiar, there halfway across the globe. That's the good thing about blogs, too. Sometimes someone happens to drop by, ever so randomly, gets beyond the first few lines and recognises humanity in you.
The drummer of my favourite band said it rather well, I think.
"You can't be an artist if you're endlessly anxious about the potential for misunderstanding: you've just got to be confident that your spirit is right, that your integrity is there, and that people fundamentally will get the point, will respond to it because you're human beings." Christoph Schneider