Every few weeks or so, the diarists' mailing list returns to the "why do you write" thread. And, every few weeks or so, I clam up. Oh, you've noticed there isn't really a forthright explanation on the site, either? Yeah, well...

I feel so... disconnected. So outside looking in. Different. Pariah.

And I have all these wonderful excuses and reasons and whatever you like to call them, but no-one ever listens. My fellow diarists just slap a little nametag on me, stuff me in a box with a dozen other dregs. They insist I'm just like these other imbeciles that use Geocities, write "depressing" journals, go by a pseudonym, etc. ad nauseum.

gage steele, come on down! You're the next contestant on the OP Ring Queue. To qualify, correctly compleat the following phrase: "I write because..." And here are your choices: 1. I am an egomaniac and want hits; 2. I am a closet intellectual and want hits; 3. I think I'm all that and a bag of chips, and I'll deny that I write for hits, but I write for hits.

Uhh... what was the question, again?

You point a finger at me, declare me "one of those diarists." Yet, I don't write for the reasons you do, or they do. I am not the sum of the epithets you've pinned to my breast. I am not who or what you think I am. I'm not like you. I used to wish I were. I used to try. But I'm not and never will be. I accept that now. Why can't you? Why can't you just listen to my reasons and excuses and whatever you like to call them, and believe me? Jesus, mollify me if you have to.

I write because there is a part of me that lunges at the phone every time
Dateline NBC advises that if I have a story idea, I should call. I write because I'm up late, plotting how I might destroy Evil Stepfather and everyone involved with The School. I write as I lay my plans, sketch my line of attack. Though I know it's an ill-fated battle that can only end in my Pyrrhic victory, I will have the last word this time. No matter the cost.

_{(I don't want fame and fortune; I want blood.)}

But Real Me is too yellow to go through with it. That part of me is in control, and slaps Pariah's hand away from the phone. Real Me makes hollow promises, idle threats. She manufactures fantastic stories to force Pariah back into her cave.

"Shut up, you ignorant slob," Real Me says, "or they'll come and get us for sure. We'll do it like I said we would, keep a quasi-anonymous account of it on-line. And that is the end of the discussion."

Pariah bides her time, slinks back to her lair. She allows Real Me her manipulative tactics, obliges her paranoia. This site keeps Real Me occupied. She is satisfied that she's given Pariah what she considers a "safe" outlet. All the while, Pariah grows stronger. She won't be trifled with much longer. She knows you deserve better. I deserve more. Evil Stepfather and The School deserve to be drawn and quartered on Oprah.

Rick and Josh and Marni? One day soon, everyone's going to know what you did. It'll be my face leering at you from the front page, from the hotseat of your favourite primetime news programme. You'll feel the blast like an M-80 on your doorstep, and I'll be the one holding the match. You're going down.

That is why I write. It's why I'm on Geocities... for now. That's why I've clawed my way out of the box into which I've been stuffed, and refuse to crawl back in. I'm not "just like" anyone. I don't mold to easy stereotypes and cop-outs belched up in the stead of understanding that which is difficult to understand.

I am the hateful, vindictive siren they won't see coming, and I'm just warming my motor here.