Buried deep inside myself is a halfway decent writer. I minored in creative writing, for whatever that’s worth. When I was younger I imagined writing Mark Twain inspired stories about my childhood adventures growing up in the swamps of Central Florida. You know, happy stuff. However, these days I sometimes use writing as a tool for venting anger, grief, fears and frustrations. That’s not a bad thing — unless I published all that shit!
My instinct is to treat my blog as a brutally honest account of the events in my life — as a personal journal. That begs the question…
“Should a blog be a journal?”
Maybe, but a very well pruned journal. Once upon a time, journals and diaries were hidden under beds and locked away in drawers. Those words were not meant to see the light of day, and we were terrified of them falling in to the wrong hands. Blogs and Facebook changed that. Now, our own hands are often the wrong ones.
I’m an optimistic dude. I try to look for the good in life and people. I try not to dwell on the sad times. They’re a part of me, but they don’t define me. Life is too short to fill it with bitterness. When I write as a release, that’s exactly what it is. I’m taking those angry thoughts, painful memories and hurtful people, and I’m letting them go. Some words should be written and burned.
That blue “Publish” button shouldn’t always be clicked. Sometimes, the “Move to Trash” button is the most relevant, most appropriate action to take.