Dear Diary...

My younger sister called me today, just to check in. When I started this blog, I gave a link to three people in my life, and she was one of them. I heartily regret having done so now.

I didn't anticipate how "confessional" the tone of my blog was going to become. Obviously, making such a private journal "public" fulfills some strong psychological need in me. I recognize there's an exhibitionistic element here, but primarily it's a way to be known while remaining anonymous. It's a way to express anger, frustration, longing, fear, without risking censure or criticism, because, after all, if someone reads what I write and judges me harshly, it hardly matters, since we wouldn't even recognize each other on the street.

I can only know what I think by writing it out. Being forced to shape daily events into a cohesive narrative -- making stories out of them -- imposes structure on randomness. (It probably also lends significance to that which is not very significant.) It helps me let stuff go, too, in a way that venting to a friend on the phone does not: Talking fuels the tendency for endless, circular rumination, whereas writing reduces it.

When I was an adolescent, young girls were often given personal diaries that closed with a tiny lock and key. I never used mine. The dated pages were too small, the covers were too prissy, and I always wound up breaking the lock or losing the key. Keeping a diary that no one else will ever read always struck me as a lonely, fruitless enterprise, anyway. In the same way that I cannot weep in solitude, I require a sympathetic audience, or at least the illusion of one: a witness to my suffering!

Of course, I dearly wish I had kept a teenage diary, because it would be fascinating to see who I was 35 years ago. Although I am sure it would make me cringe!

Statcounter tells me about 15 people return here, maybe 20 on a good day. I only know the handles of those who comment, of course, and if they maintain their own blogs, I return the favor. A kind of relationship, however ephemeral and superficial, develops. I really get a sense of who some of these people are by reading what they write, and I really like them.

A readership of 25 -- the size of one of my college level classes -- seems just about right. I can easily imagine accommodating a couple dozen convivial souls in my home, or out on the town. I fancy we would have a grand old time yakking it up.

One of the reasons I regret revealing my blog to anyone in my "real" world is that it effectively made blogging about them impossible or at least, dangerous. It certainly terminated any future liaisons with The Runner, for example, about which I still feel some chagrin, although certainly this was not a major loss for either of us.

I'm inhibited from sharing some thoughts about "Max." He likes reading references to himself, but only ones that present him favorably of course. I am not sure if I will keep my "tongue" curbed forever, though. Will I drive him even farther away? That would be a pity, since I enjoy his sporadic companionship. But it wouldn't destroy me.

My relationship with my sister, on the other hand, is very significant to me. Although we don't talk often, and our relationship has always been somewhat prickly and volatile, we can't entirely escape one another. As I get older, and develop a stronger sense of self, and a desire to protect and nourish said self, I grow increasingly guarded with her -- while still longing for greater intimacy between us. The bottom line is, she judges me: a lot. She sometimes projects a "tough love" stance that I resent. What I want from friends and family, of course, is unconditional love. And I dislike who I become around her, someone pathetically yearning for approval from someone who, for a complicated host of reasons, cannot appreciate me.

I am not the sister either of my sisters wanted, I think, their protestations to the contrary. And frankly, they aren't, either.

In our conversation, she asks if I am writing. "My blog, of course," I reply. Then she says something that I hear as, But do you have any ideas for a writing project that is worthy/interesting, i.e., publishable? Monica, who does not have a link to this blog, delivers the same message. In Monica's case, it's because she stoutly and unconsciously subscribes to the capitalistic gospel that the value of any endeavor is measurable by how many people would pay for it. Of course, my sister is far more sophisticated and far less crass. And of course I take my sister's opinions more seriously, in almost all matters.

This is a highly sensitive area for me, because I have always been told I had a way with words. In fact, writing is the only form of artistic expression I have any (modest) gift for, and I would dearly wish, in my heart of hearts, to be... An Artist. However, I read so much that I realize my talents are relatively limited. Furthermore, I don't have A Topic, at least not one that hasn't been addressed by much better writers already. I can't think of anything original to say, although I am pretty good at synthesizing other people's ideas. There are literally thousands of blogs out there that are "better" in almost every way than mine is, and I am becoming a bit cowed by that fact. And yet I keep compulsively blogging away, lately sometimes twice a day, because something in me compels me to.

I find myself withdrawing from the conversation with la petite souer, even as I tell myself that her remarks are meant to be encouraging and a testimony to her confidence in my writing ability. Unfortunately, I can't help interpreting her efforts to motivate me (to do more with my life, to finally realize my potential) as criticism; there is implicit judgment here that I am not doing enough. And naturally enough, I'm highly reactive. The familiar steel wall slides down between us, chunk!

Now I expect she will read this, and I hope she will understand and not be offended or hurt. She may say, "Why don't you just tell me how you feel at the moment?"

But that's the whole point, you see: I only know what I feel after I've written about it. In my blog.