The first section I notice in today's edition of The New York Times this morning is SundayStyles. This headline rings out: "Dating a Blogger, Reading All About It." First, a blog seems to be sort of like an online journal only more terse and with more links and maybe more opinion and maybe updated multiple times a day, hence more of a 'log' or a 'WEB log' and thus a 'B log.' And someone who writes one is, of course, a blogger. For the record, the blogger in question and the guy she was dating broke up. Also, for the record, I don't like that word, blog.

But this diatribe isn't about not liking that word.

In the kitchen at some point today, after I've already consumed the articles on the blog experience and had some second thoughts about the journal:

FFP: "I guess if we were still dating you'd be writing all about me." [Ed. note: possibly not his exact words...exact words are not my forté.]

Me: Hmmm. I guess.

Truthfully, I write about him all the time although I try to keep it about me, about my feelings, reactions and, yes, yes, every morsel I eat or drink. Other people appear, usually as themselves or just random 'friends.'

And maybe it's all too much. Too much exposure.

Anyway, as this article and many others have pointed out...these things can lead to upset friends, spoiled relationships, lost jobs. Well, I guess that last one won't be a problem for me. But, truthfully, I did worry about that one when I had a job. And at least one journal keeper that I read has lost a job because of his journal.

And the fact is that the more I write, especially if I write day after day, the more what feels true to me cries out to be written. Which is scary I suppose.

I have not promoted this journal. I haven't gone to journal conventions. One is actually being held in Austin in October. They are pitching it to 'Web Writers.' I think because calling them journals is so yesterday and it used to be JournalCon. I'm interested in it and interested in some of the people I read who might come but I'm still not interested in promoting my own.

I guess to me the journal is not for readers but is more like my own commonplace book. Fodder for my real writing that I would, presumably promote.

So why do I put this thing out in hosting space to be found by others? Even though they have to be wandering to find it because I'm not in lists, burbs or rings. (These are ways of linking these journals together. They are fun ways to find lots of personal pages but you will be frustrated by broken links and stale info if you follow any of them.)

Surely there is more to it than simply being able to get at my past private self from a WEB browser anywhere in the world. Surely there is more to it than leaving something (temporarily?) behind if my neighborhood blows up or I disappear. I read an obituary in the Austin American-Statesman (a real obit, not an ad) about a young guy (thirties) who died from complications of bone marrow transplant for Leukemia. The article mentioned his WEB page for his business and a cancer journal he left behind. It said his life partner was going to keep the pages up. It troubled me when I went to the pages that there was no acknowlegement of the passing. The WEB is easy to update, we think, so it should be. Of course, when I'm traveling or in crisis, I can't/won't/don't update either. My journal almost disappeared during my mother's ordeal last year. We forget that real people don't just make the decision to publically expose themselves and that it then happens. A real person has to sit at the keyboard, too. And decide on every word and bit of formatting.

Why haven't I gone through with my plan to password protect the journal at least so I'll know who is reading? (Actually, November 2002 is password protected. For no particular reason.)

These are questions I don't have the answers for. This journal has become an obsession with me as surely as William Bennett couldn't help playing slot machines. I gave up sodas (OK, almost) but I can't give up caffeine, wine, nachos or writing this silly thing.