Why we write here...

On the heels of that miserable passage I realize that I could have written the same thing down in my journal, and it would have lacked all power. Now I know why we blog here. If I'd written it down the words would have died and ended with me, still in my head. Here they are confessed. I write them down, but someone else will read them, hopefully a friend, sometimes a friend I didn't even know existed. The things leaves me the the Scpecoat at Yom Kippur. I think this is why I write, because the thing must leave me. My emotions cannot stay only my emotions, they have to go out and let people in. We have to share these things. This is the true power of confession.

Confession? That the friend I think I love is blathering on and on about how well he did on his exam while I am thinking about the sudden frustrations and troubles all cast upon in getting the exam back. I have written two novels, am putting one out for wide publication and keep my business to myself. He scores and ninety-five and won't stop talking. Suddenly I wonder what it would be like to dash his brains out on the pavement. My life has always been violent like this. I never feel ho hum about anything. I'm not even banal about my own banality.

I don't know what reading this does for you, but I know what writing it does for me. Whoever has left, I hope you come back. Whoever has been here all along (Frema, Helen, London) put your feet up and bitch.