Today I wrote a letter.
Probably not a very good one but a very long one.
The topic: private.
The contents: private.
Although I have this 'blog, and I sometimes post crap that just seems way too personal about myself, my life, and the people in my life, there are some things that need to remain private.
This letter is one of them.
I'll have it ready if I ever need it, though some things should probably be said in person.
I think the reason I mention it here is to say how exhilarating it was, after so many weeks of wrapping things up in metaphors and obscure references, to be able to simply write something both true and comprehensible.
I've read that a lot of real writers, when asked why they write, answer the same way.
You don't write because you can. You write because you must. To not write would be to deny who you are.
Now of course I'm far from being a real writer, but I do seem to have this itch that can only be scratched by stringing words together and giving them some permanence - whether on paper, a computer file, or the Internet itself.
This letter I wrote today was freeing. I was able to say what I wanted without fear of repercussions because I had already decided to never send the letter..
It was a lot like my old journals that only I ever read. In those journals is the real me (at least the real me back when I wrote the things) - not some watered-down version of me so tempered by a desire for approval and acceptance that the "me" is nearly unrecognizable.
An example of the real me from 1991:
Just keep telling yourself that, Dave. You may actually believe it someday.