The attentive reader will recall that I often question the point of continuing this exercise in therapy and egotism. I doubt it will ever cease as long as certain fracture points remain unresolved. (Having compiled the latest evidence, I have full faith that they are on track to provide several more years' worth of material -- lucky you.) But even accepting the personal value of these writings, of late I've thought about the apparent futility of their longevity. (You caught me -- to admit that this is painful is to also admit that, despite my protests to the contrary, there is (at times) effort and feeling put into these writings.) I don't know quite what I'm after in terms of long term rewards, but gathering dust until the singularity doesn't seem particularly inspiring. So where is any of this going?
The basic problem seems clear -- as long as this diary remains private in spirit if not execution, private these thoughts will remain. This by itself is the end of any initial discussion on the subject. But even if they were released to the world as an educational exercise, who would care? One of the few truths I have confidence in now is that, contrary to the wishful optimism of my writings from the decade prior, I am really no more or less than any of the others who cohabit this world at this point in time. My painstaking recording of thoughts and feelings does not afford me any special status. But again, even assuming a sect were devoted to studying the words of wisdom strewn about here, what would they really find? A consequence of having everything kept under wraps is the sadly solipsistic nature of what I've found comfortable to write about. While the byline of the diary is to record moments that mean more than they let on, a generous survey reveals perhaps a (stolen) turn of phrase or two that gives me pride -- which, personally pleasurable though they may be, I doubt they say anything about your life, or for that matter anyone else's.
About that wishful optimism -- I think if you pressed me to admit it then, there was always a dream that this diary was only a means to a grander end. I think I saw it as a testing ground, where I could sharpen my writing skills to the point of seriously pursuing the writing of a novel, poem, song, or anything of more lasting and broader value. Failed though my early exercises in this were, at least they put up a fight against reality, and in doing so yielded one or two things that still surprise me today. Any objective study of what has followed since must conclude that what followed since was essentially a very public admission of surrender.
Why did things change? Apart from the realisation that writing was harder than I gave it credit (!), there was a discovery that I have just too many unsaid thoughts and emotions which started to demand some outlet. Being unkind, one would say this was a betrayal of principle; being unkind back, I would say that one had best try living a month in my mind to understand why it dwarfs any sense of beauty in this world. For better or worse, then, I went down the path of focussing on the inner monologues. Finding a way to express them in words was challenge enough; further forging them into something more broadly palatable, that is work for another life. As these things go, it's sadly not one I will ever get to visit.
So. What I leave behind is not, as I once hoped, a collection of letters and poems that someone on Mars can one day read and marvel at. It is a gallery of daydreams and nightmares that happen to frequent my mind. There is no objective reason for any of this to be preserved. But I expect that through this channel, no more noisy than other common surrogates, you have a glimpse at the arc of a private life, from Oliver to Fagin. That this world will be forgotten seems no less tragic than the fact that my public one will fade twice as fast. What is one to do in the face of that truth? Perhaps step away from the quill from time to time and look for another way to trick myself into believing otherwise.
The basic problem seems clear -- as long as this diary remains private in spirit if not execution, private these thoughts will remain. This by itself is the end of any initial discussion on the subject. But even if they were released to the world as an educational exercise, who would care? One of the few truths I have confidence in now is that, contrary to the wishful optimism of my writings from the decade prior, I am really no more or less than any of the others who cohabit this world at this point in time. My painstaking recording of thoughts and feelings does not afford me any special status. But again, even assuming a sect were devoted to studying the words of wisdom strewn about here, what would they really find? A consequence of having everything kept under wraps is the sadly solipsistic nature of what I've found comfortable to write about. While the byline of the diary is to record moments that mean more than they let on, a generous survey reveals perhaps a (stolen) turn of phrase or two that gives me pride -- which, personally pleasurable though they may be, I doubt they say anything about your life, or for that matter anyone else's.
About that wishful optimism -- I think if you pressed me to admit it then, there was always a dream that this diary was only a means to a grander end. I think I saw it as a testing ground, where I could sharpen my writing skills to the point of seriously pursuing the writing of a novel, poem, song, or anything of more lasting and broader value. Failed though my early exercises in this were, at least they put up a fight against reality, and in doing so yielded one or two things that still surprise me today. Any objective study of what has followed since must conclude that what followed since was essentially a very public admission of surrender.
Why did things change? Apart from the realisation that writing was harder than I gave it credit (!), there was a discovery that I have just too many unsaid thoughts and emotions which started to demand some outlet. Being unkind, one would say this was a betrayal of principle; being unkind back, I would say that one had best try living a month in my mind to understand why it dwarfs any sense of beauty in this world. For better or worse, then, I went down the path of focussing on the inner monologues. Finding a way to express them in words was challenge enough; further forging them into something more broadly palatable, that is work for another life. As these things go, it's sadly not one I will ever get to visit.
So. What I leave behind is not, as I once hoped, a collection of letters and poems that someone on Mars can one day read and marvel at. It is a gallery of daydreams and nightmares that happen to frequent my mind. There is no objective reason for any of this to be preserved. But I expect that through this channel, no more noisy than other common surrogates, you have a glimpse at the arc of a private life, from Oliver to Fagin. That this world will be forgotten seems no less tragic than the fact that my public one will fade twice as fast. What is one to do in the face of that truth? Perhaps step away from the quill from time to time and look for another way to trick myself into believing otherwise.
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