When I wrote in my journal, which was quite often when I was 16, I didn’t really need to have a sense of comfort to be able to write. I could write when I was mad, hurt, and happy as hell. I could rant for pages together and not worry about how it reads.
Blogging doesn’t allow me this liberty of comfort. I am mad at the world today and there are a hundred odd things I want to say but I cannot because then everybody will know I am a dumbfuck. That’s the only thing I really miss about writing in my journal. Only I knew that I was being a dumbfuck when I wrote in one of my fuck you sprees. Here, I have to watch what I say, make sure I don’t bitch much, avoid using too many exclamation marks: something that I exploited to a point of embarrassment in my journals. I kid you not, I cannot read my journal today without erasing a hundred emoticons and cursing my parents for having made me.
Clearly, blogging disciplines you in a way that even regular journal writing cannot. In this part of the world I am accountable for the metaphors I use, for the tragedies I weave and the drama that I miserably push. Back in my older world, metaphors were always found in Meg Cabot/ Judy Blume books or worse copied from them.Tragedies were an everyday drama and took up space like it was its grandfather’s house. Blogging screws with your comfort in ways that will only make you better at swearing, if nothing and eventually, writing, hopefully.
I am glad I blog. I am happy about the A- Z challenge. I am not sure if it has made me a better writer, but I am certainly happier and far more disciplined a writer. See? No exclamations.