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| August Müller (1836–1885), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons |
I’m not much for blogging. The diary wins this competition. First thing in the morning I sit on a couch that faces east while my hand moves across the page.
Blogging is “better,” in the sense that it’s more career-oriented and meant for public consumption; it’s literary. There’s a shape to it, a structure, a theme. It’s practice for serious writing. It’s ambitious, it assumes an audience. It’s real estate, an advertisement, a room of one’s own on the world wide web.
A diary is a consolation, a secret, an intimate friend. My cartridge pen is orange. The cover of my journal is shocking pink. The ink flows over the paper like a sloop over Lake Michigan on a windy day. In it, I record the dreams I remember, a list of what I hope to achieve that day, observations about the wildlife outside my window, memories, emotions.
A diary is a womb to re-enter. To hide inside.
A blog is a megaphone, a soapbox. Something polished to offer others.
During the pandemic, I have been increasingly drawn inward. But since todo cambia, it won’t hurt to stick my neck out a bit. I’ll blog in the hope of a more social future.