Writers used to be private. They wrote books. They had their private dramas and parties and we caught little glimpses between the lines. They didn’t spell it all out for us. They didn’t post their shopping list on the internet. Well, maybe Thoreau. He would have loved blogging. “I spent $2.50 on nails for my shed today. Stealing wifi from my neighbor.”

Blah blah blah blah blah. Shut up. No more nonsense.

I don’t read other people’s blogs. Unless I know them. I don’t want to read inside other people’s lives. I do, however, want a place to spew.

Do not mistake this place for beauty or wit. It is a place for motley stews of words. It is not here because I want to share. It is here because I want to write.

I don’t care if you read it. Let’s just not pretend though. I’m not writing for my readers. I’m not inviting them into my life. I’m not connecting and being transparent. I’m writing for me. I don’t want you in my world. I want my world on the page.

***

This space is the place I feel freest to write. I’m planning to re-org it a bit. The other writers have moved on. Maybe some will come back. I want to pause my other blogs. I don’t want to share anymore. I just want a space to write, a hidden nook away from the crowd. With no expectations. How could I write for a teeming invisible theoretical mass anyway? I don’t like it. I want to create tools for small groups, and publish those. I don’t want to write for everyone. If I have a good idea I’ll put it on the Tao. The bloggy blog will go. I have an ambivalent relationship with my audience, if my audience is ‘anyone’ and my subject is ‘me’.

Here I can come and go and return and nobody asks where I’ve been. It’s private. It’s for spewing. It’s not for public consumption. It’s not my book. It’s my journal. I never want to mix the two again.

This will be a corner of the Universe that only breadcrumbs will lead to. No flash. You’ll just know if you know. It’s not for everyone.

***

Damn, I miss writing.