I’m a journaler from way back, since I was an English major in college. The chronicles of my 30-year inner journey are stored in a cardboard office file box that says on the outside,

If I am dead, throw this box, unopened, into the fire.

Since I’m not dead, I occasionally try to reread my journals, and it’s painful.

Why? Because I always journal the eternal question: “Why?”

Why did Poindexter stop calling me? Why am I so busy and tired all the time? Why won’t Betty Lou listen to my sage advice?

I can see, from 30 years’ worth of material, that there hasn’t much progress on the big issues. Men still don’t call. I’m still too busy. I still have self-doubt.

So I’m going to stop the madness and blog instead. What’s the difference?

• The openness of a blog holds me to a higher standard. Even if people don’t read it, they could. So blogging induces me to write pretty.
• Blogging develops my writer’s voice. Journaling doesn’t, because I’m the only reader. Blogging forces me to think about my audience, and the voice I want them to hear.
• I’d rather look online for validation of thoughts I want to share, than look inward for understanding of conundrums I can barely fathom.

“So why the anonymity, RRC?” you ask. “If these thoughts are worth sharing, why not put your name on them?” I refer you to my Who page.

This blog might still be painful for me to read, but I’ll keep working at it until it isn’t painful for you to read.

Possible future posts: The difference between my journals and ”Morning  Pages” à la The Artist’s Way; More about anonymity; Me and You in Writing; A different kind of “Why?”; Me me me