The dangers of blogging

I found some journals from junior high and high school (the one from college was stolen, along with some other stuff, when someone broke into my car not long after graduation ... that makes me a bit nervous).

It's a kick to read through them again -- and not a little bit humbling. I'm glad to report that I'm on much better terms with my brother than I was back then ... and I had to laugh -- out loud -- at some of the crushes I confessed on those college-ruled sheets of paper. I didn't like my teachers (a sentiment that hasn't changed with time or wisdom, I'm afraid), and my parents frustrated me. A lot. I'm sure it was mutual.

The point is -- I used to journal. Or just write for the sake of writing. It was like the stomach crunches I would do before bed each night -- the creative writing part of my brain was a muscle that got much exercise during those years. It's grown kind of flabby and un-stretched in recent years, though.

Enter blogging.

Blogging is great -- a great writing tool, great for keeping people apprised of the goings-on in your life who really want to stay up-to-date, without the hassle of mass-mail e-mails. I like blogging. That muscle's getting some use again (though I'm nowhere near the stomach-crunch level that I was when I was 15 and 16 -- in so many respects).

But the danger and frustration of blogging comes in knowing what to publish and what to keep to yourself.

This is where long periods of silence come in.

I write -- I just don't always publish. It's stuff better destined for a spiral-bound notebook, to be rediscovered in 10 years, pondered, laughed at, cried over, learned from. Possibly burned thereafter.