“You really don’t have to,” says Kinga often enough when I trudge upstairs to keep my little posting streak going. I think I’m on month four of daily posts, and I really sometimes think it’s not worth it. What’s the point? But then I think, I can always cheat.
Apart from indulging the love of writing, I find that daily blogging allows me to pay respect to each day that passes. Every day *is* important, but most of the time, we just fly through our waking hours, without pause or contemplation. Blogging forces me to stop, to consider. (Though I did begin blogging after my youngest left for college… Don’t know if I could have done it before. But maybe! And I would have enjoyed fashioning a chronicle of parenting in those years. Though my spouse then wasn’t as keen on my blogging as my partner now is. Ed’s encouragement of my pursuit of this rather strange hobby, even at times when the going is tough — eg we’re traveling and I can’t find WiFi — has made the whole thing fun rather than a chore.)
I used to keep a daily journal for just those purposes. Trying to do both proved impossible, so I’ve shifted most of my writing here. This has certain disadvantages, namely its public nature (often an advantage) and the accompanying question of audience and voice (specifically tone). It’s a much more formal medium: its public nature necessitates that. Unfortunately, that public nature also necessitates much self-censorship, things I would write about freely in a private journal that don’t even get a mention here. Sometimes, then, I guess I just don’t have the energy to do the requisite mental editing.
Oh, I kept journals too. Years and years of them. One day, actually around your age, I took all my adult journals (not kid ones — those were innocent and funny) and threw them out into a public trash bin. I never regretted that. I don’t know about your journaling, but mine was so reckless and emotional and undisciplined!
It’s what I love about blogging. You’re right: you have to censor out so much. But at the same time, since it has an audience, it’s disciplined. You’re accountable for what you say. And I think that’s a good thing.
Mine were a mix: some portions were definitely emotional, reckless, or undisciplined. Those passages are painful to read. But a large portion of them were more introspective and descriptive: moving to Poland in 1996 did a lot to help get rid of the emotion and bolster the description and introspection. Those years generally alternate between what I was experiencing in Poland and what I was reading in preparation for grad studies in philosophy of religion. Now only one of the two interest me, and the emotional drivel — who needs it? Still, I’m reluctant to part with them. I’m a pack rat when it comes to my writing.