This blog is me selling out. I think pontificating in front of an audience with no upper limit is presumptuous and blurs the (increasingly fuzzy) lines that separate private from public. But I desperately want to write; I've failed thus far at making myself sit down and just. do. it. I write in the passionate spurts I hope to bring to fiction and the like when writing emails to others. A ham in my heart of hearts (like most people--¡que trayf!), I like to tell stories to people, not just to Microsoft Word. This is one of the many reasons I'm drawn to journalism; one always writes with one's readership in mind.
I've read that fiction writers often like to forget that an outside audience exists to fling the superego off their backs during the writing process. Understandable. But when I write to friends, I'm at my most open. My friends have often been kinder to me than I am to myself.
Therefore: thought this may be the last post this nascent blog sees, perhaps it can become the vehicle that kicks writing into the breathing/eating/sleeping category for me. Here, then, is not a statement of lofty purpose--no Wordsworthian Preface or modernist manifesto--but one of selfish intent: Here I AM (dear reader!), and here is writing.
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