Self-Editing
One of my favorite people, who still loves me despite the fact that I have not completed an entire conversation with him more than once in six months, nudged me today about this poor blog. Without being updated in six months, it would have made perfect sense for Blogger to delete it.
And even though I haven't wanted to write in it for six months, I don't want it to be gone. I always reserve the right to change my mind. But I'm in a strange place, mentally.
I have been writing for public consumption for ten years now. Mostly, it's been fun. Sometimes, it has been the nadir of a trough in a vomitorium since converted to an outhouse. But mostly, it's been fun. I wouldn't take any of it back, either, and I include the time I suggested that someone in the industry (who got her job through nepotism) smelled like tuna fish. I'm sorry I said that, but I wouldn't take it back.
The reason I can say I have no regrets is because I've never posted anything without thinking about the consequences. Yes, even the nutless rant. At the time, I was not aware of HOW GINORMOUS the consequences would be. This is because at the time, I didn't realize how big the internet was. My world online was a small world and everyone knew everyone else. And my experience was with print. The only reason my newspaper articles exist anywhere at all is because I saved a few copies for my clips file. I had no clue that every word I committed to cyberspace would never die.
Despite all that, I still thought about the consequences before I hit post on that first rant, on the old Emarr EZBoard. I was (reasonably) sober, (mostly) awake, and while still angry, I was no longer burning with the white hot fury that inspired me in the first place. That first rant was edited. Yes, Virginia, I edited my rant. I varied the swearing, I punched up the similes, cleaned up the grammar, and rearranged it so the flow would pick up until it climaxed in an incoherent Learylike howl of id.
You might remember that I admitted outright that I deserved to lose my job over the incident. That is because I knew it might happen when I hit post, and accepted that. I had intentionally written the rant to entertain, as well as to vent some outrage.
My point is that contrary to appearances, I have almost never in my life written something without having some idea as to the effect my words could have on other people. Anyone who writes well enough to have readers will agree with me.
This blog came into being so I could write about things that moved me, things that infuriated me, and as a repository for the funny shit my friends say at lunch. This blog didn't come into being so I could immortalize the material that would have miserable consequences. It also didn't come into being so I could bore everyone with my life.
When I started to slow down the posting, it was because the thing I most wanted to rant about was a family thing. I've intentionally not shared this link with many people, but it's still public. The thing I wanted to post hit the trifecta of themes from hell: Religion, family, and childhood drama. I believe that my opinion was right, that the other party was not just wrong but delusional, and moreover the anecdote was the funniest damned thing since a cream pie to face. I also believed that posting it would be the kind of thing that would make a future relationship impossible.
It seemed like the rest of the summer had drama with the same cast. Every time, I said to myself, fuck, you know, I don't care if I never talk to these people again. I might as well entertain my friends with the story on the blog. And I started to! I am not a particularly good person! The saved post is somewhere in the editing window. I just never flipped the flag. The internet is not a twelve year old's diary even if all the thirty year olds treat it that way.
And then, of course, came the cataclysm at work. I try to type about it, but I backspace so many times that I usually give up and wander away for a snack. Everything I write is either a lie, a partial truth, an expression of frustration that the ignorant would invest with too much meaning, or in some cases legally actionable. Also, I have a hard time being a hypocrite even if it is a survival skill in some quarters. Some of the blog posts that I have written are the kinds of things that I, were I to find them on coworker blogs, would try to get the author fired over. Therefore, I refuse to post them.
Finally, there's a whole half of my life aside from the stupid drama with family and work, and that half is pretty awesome. I mean that in the exact sense you did when you said "Awesome!" back when you were ten. Like you can't hold back the grin, and the only way you could be happier would be if you actually got a ten speed bike for your birthday. It isn't perfect; there are tears and storms and sometimes there's fear of what the future holds. Sometimes it's up until two in the morning and then wailed out in instant messenger to someone in Seattle.
But what the hell is the point of blog if you're not going to be honest? If I won't post the angry things, and I can't post the work things, what's left? I'll tell you what's left. A fucking Christmas letter.
Some people write them pretty well, but I am not one of those people. If you got one of my Christmas cards before my fruit fly-like attention span expired and I wandered away from the stack, you got a short little note regarding your family or my general and abiding affection for you. (If you did not get a card, it's in a pile near where I keep the stamps. I'm not even going to pretend that you'll get it any time soon - I have addressed, unsent cards dating back to 1997.) What you did not get was a Christmas letter.
Holy crap, I have a great idea for a blog entry.
And even though I haven't wanted to write in it for six months, I don't want it to be gone. I always reserve the right to change my mind. But I'm in a strange place, mentally.
I have been writing for public consumption for ten years now. Mostly, it's been fun. Sometimes, it has been the nadir of a trough in a vomitorium since converted to an outhouse. But mostly, it's been fun. I wouldn't take any of it back, either, and I include the time I suggested that someone in the industry (who got her job through nepotism) smelled like tuna fish. I'm sorry I said that, but I wouldn't take it back.
The reason I can say I have no regrets is because I've never posted anything without thinking about the consequences. Yes, even the nutless rant. At the time, I was not aware of HOW GINORMOUS the consequences would be. This is because at the time, I didn't realize how big the internet was. My world online was a small world and everyone knew everyone else. And my experience was with print. The only reason my newspaper articles exist anywhere at all is because I saved a few copies for my clips file. I had no clue that every word I committed to cyberspace would never die.
Despite all that, I still thought about the consequences before I hit post on that first rant, on the old Emarr EZBoard. I was (reasonably) sober, (mostly) awake, and while still angry, I was no longer burning with the white hot fury that inspired me in the first place. That first rant was edited. Yes, Virginia, I edited my rant. I varied the swearing, I punched up the similes, cleaned up the grammar, and rearranged it so the flow would pick up until it climaxed in an incoherent Learylike howl of id.
You might remember that I admitted outright that I deserved to lose my job over the incident. That is because I knew it might happen when I hit post, and accepted that. I had intentionally written the rant to entertain, as well as to vent some outrage.
My point is that contrary to appearances, I have almost never in my life written something without having some idea as to the effect my words could have on other people. Anyone who writes well enough to have readers will agree with me.
This blog came into being so I could write about things that moved me, things that infuriated me, and as a repository for the funny shit my friends say at lunch. This blog didn't come into being so I could immortalize the material that would have miserable consequences. It also didn't come into being so I could bore everyone with my life.
When I started to slow down the posting, it was because the thing I most wanted to rant about was a family thing. I've intentionally not shared this link with many people, but it's still public. The thing I wanted to post hit the trifecta of themes from hell: Religion, family, and childhood drama. I believe that my opinion was right, that the other party was not just wrong but delusional, and moreover the anecdote was the funniest damned thing since a cream pie to face. I also believed that posting it would be the kind of thing that would make a future relationship impossible.
It seemed like the rest of the summer had drama with the same cast. Every time, I said to myself, fuck, you know, I don't care if I never talk to these people again. I might as well entertain my friends with the story on the blog. And I started to! I am not a particularly good person! The saved post is somewhere in the editing window. I just never flipped the flag. The internet is not a twelve year old's diary even if all the thirty year olds treat it that way.
And then, of course, came the cataclysm at work. I try to type about it, but I backspace so many times that I usually give up and wander away for a snack. Everything I write is either a lie, a partial truth, an expression of frustration that the ignorant would invest with too much meaning, or in some cases legally actionable. Also, I have a hard time being a hypocrite even if it is a survival skill in some quarters. Some of the blog posts that I have written are the kinds of things that I, were I to find them on coworker blogs, would try to get the author fired over. Therefore, I refuse to post them.
Finally, there's a whole half of my life aside from the stupid drama with family and work, and that half is pretty awesome. I mean that in the exact sense you did when you said "Awesome!" back when you were ten. Like you can't hold back the grin, and the only way you could be happier would be if you actually got a ten speed bike for your birthday. It isn't perfect; there are tears and storms and sometimes there's fear of what the future holds. Sometimes it's up until two in the morning and then wailed out in instant messenger to someone in Seattle.
But what the hell is the point of blog if you're not going to be honest? If I won't post the angry things, and I can't post the work things, what's left? I'll tell you what's left. A fucking Christmas letter.
Some people write them pretty well, but I am not one of those people. If you got one of my Christmas cards before my fruit fly-like attention span expired and I wandered away from the stack, you got a short little note regarding your family or my general and abiding affection for you. (If you did not get a card, it's in a pile near where I keep the stamps. I'm not even going to pretend that you'll get it any time soon - I have addressed, unsent cards dating back to 1997.) What you did not get was a Christmas letter.
Holy crap, I have a great idea for a blog entry.
posted by Sanya at 10:09 PM
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