Sunday, May 11, 2008

Coffeeshop Confessional

This was, by far, not my best Confessional. I had a hard time breaking away from my inner thoughts to really notice anything, or anyone, of interest around me. It would have been easy to abandon the project altogether and to leave it forever undone as a failed attempt that history would never remember. It would have been easy, almost painfully so. I struggled on.
There are things, I have reminded myself as of late, that must remain unspoken in this blog. This, of course, echoes sentiments that have surfaced over the past few days. This blog cannot be a journal for me. I know this. The hard part about the restraint I must show is that many of the readers of this blog, even the faceless lurkers who never post comments, have become as familiar as trusted friends. Yet there are times when certain morsels of information can wreak massive havoc on future plans or otherwise normal circumstances.
It is an odd sensation to realize that a certain level of censorship must be maintained. I never thought I would have much to hide when I started out on this blog project, other than the identities of my children and other such personal details.
I used this Confessional to remind myself that there is a purpose to holding back with certain thoughts and details. Who knows what untold meaning it could hold for the person who may stumble across it.

1 comment:

Jim Murdoch said...

I think 'censorship' might be too strong a word here. It's editing, deciding what needs to go on the page and what doesn't. Some writers feel the need to relate every scrap of detail about their characters when, in reality, their readers can work with very little; we quite happily fill in the blanks. I think of 'Jim Murdoch, the writer' very much as a character. He is a subset of 'Jim Murdoch, the person'. He's not a caricature but he is less than a whole person. What is important is that I'm faithful to that character. In some respects he is an idealised me: he doesn't have to worry about paying bills or shopping or remembering his wife's birthday. And probably all he has to confess is that he doesn't write nearly as much as his readers might imagine he does and why would he want to shatter that illusion?