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I got up yesterday at 11 AM (which, believe it or not, was a nearly intolerable earliness), and by the same time PM was feeling comfortably exhausted. I was asleep by shortly after 12, and now I'm up, before dawn, and it's early-not-late (okay, now it's later - I got distracted). I feel proud of that.
Another mundane triumph: I've finally remembered to replace the bulb in my bedside lamp, so I can read in bed again.
I've been thinking about how, for all my occasional protestations to the contrary, the livejournal seems to have become this weblog's primary incarnation, and the different ways of being that promotes. A little while ago, I wrote in my head a brief entry about how recently I've been watching a whole bunch of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and I thought, "That is not a thing I will actually post"; it wasn't that I was ashamed of its nerdiness (though for a time I wondered if I might be), but rather that I assumed that most of those likely to read it would be bored by it. A weblog is (at times uneasily) both diary and performance, and livejournal seems to encourage the latter aspect especially; as my words, with the advent of Friends pages, are no longer just set down for my own amusement in an environment I control, I feel a considerably greater obligation to be entertaining. (Not to mention engaging - as J. has remarked on recently, it's very easy to be lured into patterns of writing that you know will encourage certain readers to comment. There's a sort of symbiosis that develops, which I find rather pleasant, from both ends, though I'm not sure I like what I may be giving up for it.)
(This phenomenon isn't entirely new - those few readers who were present when this weblog collapsed from the grace of regular updates may recall that that had a lot to do with the feeling - and the crippling self-consciousness - that I may have acquired somewhere a lot of readers, and was serving them poorly. There is, of course, some difference between a general pressing sensation of audience and an active, participatory audience. I seem to do best when I believe my audiences to be hypothetical.)
When I went to see the Windsor House play yesterday (which was non-bad, but not among our best), I talked to Sylvia for a while, and she mentioned that she was writing about 600 words a day; just, you know, journal stuff. I felt a twinge of regret for the time when I wrote in this weblog daily, and could probably have said the same.
Another mundane triumph: I've finally remembered to replace the bulb in my bedside lamp, so I can read in bed again.
I've been thinking about how, for all my occasional protestations to the contrary, the livejournal seems to have become this weblog's primary incarnation, and the different ways of being that promotes. A little while ago, I wrote in my head a brief entry about how recently I've been watching a whole bunch of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and I thought, "That is not a thing I will actually post"; it wasn't that I was ashamed of its nerdiness (though for a time I wondered if I might be), but rather that I assumed that most of those likely to read it would be bored by it. A weblog is (at times uneasily) both diary and performance, and livejournal seems to encourage the latter aspect especially; as my words, with the advent of Friends pages, are no longer just set down for my own amusement in an environment I control, I feel a considerably greater obligation to be entertaining. (Not to mention engaging - as J. has remarked on recently, it's very easy to be lured into patterns of writing that you know will encourage certain readers to comment. There's a sort of symbiosis that develops, which I find rather pleasant, from both ends, though I'm not sure I like what I may be giving up for it.)
(This phenomenon isn't entirely new - those few readers who were present when this weblog collapsed from the grace of regular updates may recall that that had a lot to do with the feeling - and the crippling self-consciousness - that I may have acquired somewhere a lot of readers, and was serving them poorly. There is, of course, some difference between a general pressing sensation of audience and an active, participatory audience. I seem to do best when I believe my audiences to be hypothetical.)
When I went to see the Windsor House play yesterday (which was non-bad, but not among our best), I talked to Sylvia for a while, and she mentioned that she was writing about 600 words a day; just, you know, journal stuff. I felt a twinge of regret for the time when I wrote in this weblog daily, and could probably have said the same.
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Sometimes these writings go into my physical journal, and sometimes they go onto random pieces of paper. And, of course, they very often go in emails to you.
I solemnly promise to preserve my inboxes with the greatest care.
That said, for what it's worth, I find you extremely interesting pretty much every time you talk, so if you posted more, I would only be happy. I am also not the only person here who likes you a whole, whole lot.
From a more logical perspective, it may be helpful to remember:
(1) the more you post, the less any posts that actually are boring will matter, comparatively; they'll be sort of a complement to everything else.
(2) Someone will find it interesting.
(3) Someone who doesn't find it interesting may perhaps think about it seriously for the first time, simply because you did.
(4) Everyone else is boring, too! You should post so I don't feel bad! o___o
(5) If you do get any emails from a weblog-connoisseur, of delicate taste and an impeccable record of being fascinating, whose expectations you are not meeting... Umm... are you really going to take it seriously? (Or trust them more than us?) Because that person would be a moron.
In conclusion, hug! I understand, but I also have great interest in you. Ganbatte!!
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Don't worry about who reads your journal, or even if people read your journal. Write for yourself, it's more interesting that way.
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