Why some people shouldn't be allowed to read  

Spessartine 36M
11 posts
12/12/2005 5:47 am

Last Read:
12/13/2007 11:15 am

Why some people shouldn't be allowed to read

It's quite possible that I am one of the greatest opponents of literary censorship. Well, Ok, I'm sure there are people who are greater opponents than I (for one thing, they're actually doing something about it), but I detest censorship (of written works only, I'll leave other media to their own defenders) in all it's forms more than anything. I go out of my way to obtain banned books, just so I can say I've read them. I read obscure books, weird books, and I'm still here, sane as I ever was. This book makes people want to kill people, eh? Sounds like a good read.

But alas, for a brief moment this morning I must consider censoring myself. I find writing cathartic. It's purifying, like an enema for your brain. The simple act of writing has a calming effect on me, so much so that I use it as my "happy place" whenever I'm stressed or depressed or angry. And my blog (not this one, my regular, everyday one) is my new best friend. Except for my stories, whatever I need to write, I write there.

And I've come to realize that for that very reason, I'm censoring it. I'm not censoring it in what I write. What I write is pure and unadulterated from the form it takes in my head. No, I'm censoring it by not making it available to my close friends and family. Those people who know me best (and make occasional appearances, though the names are changed to protect the innocent) don't get to read what goes on in my head.

Am I ashamed of what I write? No, I'm not even ashamed of my classic "Ode to peanut butter", though many think I should be. Am I embarassed to be one of the multitudes of bloggers, to have jumped on the bandwagon? No, writing is writing, and expression expression, where ever it is. I keep my blog from people who know me for the simple reason that there are things I don't want them to know. And those are the things I most often must express.

So, why do I feel comfortable telling the faceless strangers of the online world? My catharsis has never needed to be read. I have whole binders full of stories and poems that will never be seen by eyes not mine. Just being put out in words makes the problem smaller, somehow. I'm trading that complete privacy of prose and poetic confession for convenience, for a medium that I can access from any terminal. But am I doing myself a disservice doing it? Am I editing what I write as I write it, refusing to touch some topics? Or is it still free flow? I wish I knew.

The java window will never replace pen and paper for me. It can't. I can't blog on a bus, or waiting for a bus, or walking to the bus stop, and fiction (my true medium) always flows better with ink than with ascii.

But I'm glad I have this, anyway.

And thanks for reading.

_CoffeeNoCream_ 54F

1/29/2006 3:51 pm

My ode to Coffee is a classic !!

Liefs Coffee

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