The Written Word

I'm not a very good journal-keeper. I like to collect them, mind. I have a stack of 70-sheet notebooks, a number of leather-and/or-cloth-bound journals, and post-its to myself everywhere in my room, in my purse, in my car. But I'm loathe to commit anything personal down, anything really personal.

Now mind you, I have a desire for immortality, and what is more immortal than the written word? Would we know a guy named Shakespeare if he hadn't written down those eternal words: To be or not to be, that is the question. Maybe, but maybe not.

The written word is viable. Imperative. We wouldn't have know the Golden Rule if someone hadn't taken the time to write it on papyrus. But I hate committing my little treasure-trove of Hellionisms to journal entries. Well, perhaps I don't mind the outrageous ones. But I do mind writing down the stuff that journals are actually made for. The vulnerabilities. The "I hate Jane Smith, that two-time, double-crossing snake that stole my boyfriend!" or "My boyfriend Tom kisses like an eel." Or my personal favorite Hellionism: if I had an opportunity to run over Chris Roberts, I would. Then I'd back up and hit him again. Rat bastard.

There are lots of things people remember about me that I don't remember at all. Seriously embarrassing little anecdotes that I would have been content never remembering at all until they showed up at Happy Hour and decided to share that tidbit with all my new friends. Perhaps it would be easier if I'd quit just doing embarrassing things, then nobody would bother to remember them at all. But that's not likely to happen.

Anyway--I have all these leather journals that no one would ever see and I won't even commit my own follies for my own eyes (I figure I'll have enough of Hellion This Is Your Life come Judgment Day, you know?)--and yet some people use their blogger to post their real vulnerabilities out there for all web-eternity. (I don't mean the pre-teen who's despairing about That's So Raven being canceled. I mean: My husband is a cheating scumbag and his new girlfriend, my former best friend Jessica, is a cheating whore type blogs. Or work woes blogged, using real names of bosses and co-workers.) Doesn't that seem dangerous to you all?

I don't know if it's stoic-father or what, but isn't there something dangerous about expressing every single emotion that filters through us before we've had a chance to digest it and figure it out? I don't know. It just makes me think of Tom Riddle's diary from Harry Potter. Little Ginny Weasley poured all her feelings into it, and it talked back to her, justified her feelings, soothed and petted her--and in the end, it turned out really badly.

What do you think? Yea or nay? Does it matter this is a wide-world forum? I mean, technically, now many people are likely to read your inner-most thoughts, right?