Today's Thoughts...On Writing

I read a story that was published on a social network recently. It was about an incident that happened when this person was a teenager. I knew the people involved in the historical account and I was disturbed that something so personal was shared without theirs, or their family’s permission. I questioned the motives behind it, and even they thought it was an innocent reflection, it helped me think about my own boundaries, my own ethics of writing. I do not write, even in my own journal, about any of the painful aspects of the lives of my adult children or friends. I may note some publicly known fact such as a serious illness, or some joyful achievement or even a funny episode in family life. Even for that, however, I ask their permission. Their lives are sacred and have no place on my pages. Other people in my life, however, do sometimes find themselves on my pages. They are fictionalized so much that only the person in question might guess. I have changed the gender, age, description, and place of residence; I have altered histories, and distorted the truth on purpose, all for the sake of disguise.

On the other hand, my life is an open book. Someone someday, may read it, whether it’s published or not. There are some things that I do not write anywhere, not even in my journal. Everyone’s boundaries are their own, what would be intolerable self-revelation to one person is of no consequence to another. I know the danger of keeping a journal; someone may know who I really am. Or, more accurately, someone may know who I am in the moments I am writing, and mistakenly think I am like that all the time. Because sadness drives me to write on many occasions more than celebration steers me, someone reading my journal would conclude I am sad much more of the time than is true.

From the time I was nine years old and wrote my first poem, writing has been the way I survive. It has been my “art” form and it was the way I fit in. Franz Kafka said, “Writing means revealing oneself to excess.” I strive to leave judgment to others and try to be as honest as I can. In one way or another, all writing is a confession. Confession or vulnerability masked and revealed in the voice of words.

I know that my writing has drawn people to me, and it has pushed people away. I know that the “me” revealed on my pages is not always the “me” that is seen across a table at a local pub or deli. I know that some of my friends can’t deal with the more complicated “me” they meet on my pages. I can’t help that. They can understand or they choose not to, it’s their choice.

Peace...