Writing is a cathartic exercise. I don’t just mean for me, but for whose who do it in general. Certainly writing is other things – exercising the ego, connecting with people, following the creative muse. But writing helps you crystallize thoughts, tell your side, and get shit out of your head so it doesn’t make you insane. (Or at least it can help you feel less insane.)

A bit odd, then, that it seems not uncommon for people who like to write, and, probably, sometimes need to write, to not be able to. Not in terms of writer’s block or the computer dying or whatever, but in terms of having a web site or a blog or both, and not being able to say what they want to say on it. My friend Dana, for example, finally finalized a rather obnoxious divorce earlier this year, and for quite some time was unable to write about much of her life in her journal – good or bad. Fodder for lawyers, doncha know. Fortunately, she had the WNET girls to bitch and crow to, but still. Your own journal, on your own site, about your own self and life, and you can’t say even many mild little things that you should be able to.

Of course, enough people have been fired now for talking about work on blogs that it gets covered in articles for CNN and the NY Times and the like. Dooce, who is the queen of all awesomeness, is a verb.

It just seems strange to me to have to temper your writing based on who you know is reading. Or who might be reading. Granted, I’ve always had issues with impulse control. At present, though, too, I just don’t care. I am going through intermittent hell, and my sanity requires me to clear my head. Will some of it make me cringe or shake my head in six months? Possibly. So what. And in any case, I’m hardly famous, so I’m not worried about millions of readers or creepy stalkers or anything, and my WNET girls already know how I’m doing.

For the record, this morning was iffy and I was quite tired, but this afternoon and evening I’ve been doing not badly.

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