What is it that draws us to journals? To write out our thoughts of the moment, or post what happened to us that day or week? To record for ourselves or for others milestones and minutae of our lives? I often think that perhaps I'm writing this for the few people who read it. My girlfriend, her mom on occasion, my mom on occasion, my brother on occasion (maybe), a few others who never comment. I realize from my own experience flipping through blogs randomly that someone else may read this, and so I intentionally leave out names of people or places here and there, just to frustrate stalkers a little. [laughs] Stalkers. No, there are hackers and stalkers out there. It's ironic the way the world works sometimes. My friend creates an ftp server, and leaves it vulnerable overnight, and some jerk on a power trip changes some code on the computer so he has to reinstall. On the other hand, lots of weirdos at the Texas Renaissance Festival walking around with non-projectile arsenals, and they went 30 years without anyone killing anyone else. (Yes, this year that record was broken. Someone was killed during a fight involving a bunch of people, stabbed almost 20 times I think it was, in the parking lot). I don't write this for hackers or stalkers. I don't even write this for my girlfriend. It would be easier to email her, wouldn't it? No, I write this for myself, and I'm sure everyone else out there is writing for themselves as well. But why? What am I getting out of this that makes it worth it? Honestly, it's just getting out something that's inside. Some people paint or sculpt. Some people perform plays, or debate topics that are, realistically, meaningless. Some people play sports or video games, and some people win at sports and video games. And some people write. All of these things are not important to anyone beyond ourselves and those few people with whom our lives are tied. Well, unless we get lucky and have a combination of talent, skill, and will to do something that becomes important to the masses. But this blog will never change anyone's life, at least not in any significant ways. It will never feed the starving, or end war, or change the way a culture thinks, or be significant in the market or the entertainment industry. No, it is just me talking. Sometimes not even that. And it's just something of mine that is coming out of me, that no longer is bottled up inside. And it's the truth. It's a truth, the truth that is inside me at this moment. Often I can't find it in me to put the truth on this blog, because I feel that it is mine and mine alone. I have had occasion to wish that no one else read this, because then I could say things that are not meant to be said to anyone else, but are meant to be said because they are true. I have a hard time writing stories, because they live inside my head, they change, they grow, they age, they sometimes die. But everything that is on paper, real paper or electronic paper, is now real, finished, unchanging. Some of them are houses without frames. Some of them are stunted trees. Some of them are beautiful flowers. Some of them are elaborate fences. Some of them are completely unidentifiable and unmetaphorable (yes I made that up). And all of them are mine. I always feel horrible, as a writer, exhonorating those fine specimens of writing that I've accomplished. I feel like the evil stepfather, hiding all the embarassing children in the attic. None of them will ever have a chance to meet the prince. At least, not unless I become famous and die early, so that my family collects everything I ever wrote and puts it in a book. [laughs] I've already started that. But it's not everything, oh no, not everything by far. I like The Sandman's way of putting it. "What's that you say? You haven't written any books? Of course you have! Here's one. It's called 'The Bestselling Romantic Spy Thriller I used to think about on the bus that would sell a billion copies and mean I'd never have to work again.'" Yes, yes, we all dream that everything we do makes money. It's not true. But still we have a desire to write. I just feel...like I'm not longer "too full" when I write. When I don't write, I fill up, I spill over, I lose those precious drops of creativity, of imagination, of dream. We have only so many years to live, and only so many hours of those years that are truly ours to think what we want to think, to dream what we want to dream. I can't spend all that time remembering my dreams and dreaming more at the same time. That is why I write. and it will never be enough. but I try anyway.