Writing about Writing about Writing...

From the moment I first snuck an HTML page online, I was reborn-- as a rebel, a troublemaker, an Internet whore. Exposing oneself selectively -- one could argue that it is an honest projection of "you" onto the Web, a sort of compilation you have to write on the first day of class by edict of a well-meaning teacher. Unfortunately, some personal sites end up about as coherent as that third grade project. Others are beautiful representations of a person's loves, loyalties, and interests.

One could also argue that this deliberate exposure is an attempt to create a new persona, perhaps to add a shining and store-bought Life(tm) where there is a puny or unsatisfactory one. This is my theory: your web presence is a dream you make up of truth and lies. These are my favorites of all, and this is the "me" I present to the World at large.

Mother said not to talk to strangers but the whole point of my online existence is to expose myself to unknowns. I mean, you may show your "personal" page to a flesh and blood acquaintance, but they know you! What fun is that, after the newness wears off?

Why the compulsion of so many to tell as much as they do? What selective process occurs when one is reviewing the poorly scanned pictures, the figurative dirty laundry of one's life? Each person is her own curator, and that is why it can be exciting to be a voyeur in electronic neighborhoods.

Not everyone is a good curator, of course-- witness the sites of pure Day-Glo vanity, what Sally ate for dinner, how much John's dog's surgery cost (in financial and mental anguish) and yes, Sparky is recovering nicely, thanks for the supportive email and *hug*.

When I read the diaries of Anais Nin -- legendary, extraordinarily public artifacts that they are -- I keep thinking about the Net. Will the concept of 'diary' ever be the same? Anais wrote out of practice, and probably compulsion, knowing they were intensely personal, knowing in later years that they might be read. Why, then, did she continue?

There are underground 'zines of the diary format -- Dishwasher and Cometbus to name a famous few. The authors simply write a chunk of their daily lives in block capitals, scam free copies from the nearest Kinkos, and sell their words for a buck or two. And people buy them! Is this the same as Anais' method?

On the Net are famous diaries as well. Soap opera sites let each "cast member" recount exciting and scandalous events, so addicts can read what REALLY happened on their lunch hour. Everyday schmos keep journals of their lives online as well. And yes, people read those too. What does either party, author or reader, have to gain?

And myself -- I write, yes. Some things I know are just for me -- I have shed hot tears, experienced anxiety and birthing pains over them; still, some of these end up at my site anyway, catalogued Rambles and slipped in without announcement or fanfare, guiltily as a confession. Some writing is immediately earmarked for Net publication (like this piece) but is also something I need to do, to get off my chest. Oh, dear. Does this mean I write because I have a need to entertain, gloat over, or assist people? Or do I allow myself to tell people to hide the fact that I just really need to write?

I admire those randoms who still write strictly for themselves (if there are any left out there). In this light they appear very scary indeed, but also very brave. I wish a diary was still a pink and white book with a golden lock -- a place of safety and secrecy. Does no one want to keep a secret anymore? Is privacy undesirable, when those who remain silent on the Net are those who remain invisible-- lurkers lacking courage or listeners who know better?