"I think it's brave of you to post a link to your blog on facebook."
I think about this, as I walk down the main drag towards home with Miss McG.
"I don't write about anything consequential." I reply.
"But you put your life out there."
We wait for the lights.
"I'm more aware of what I write about other people. I try not to write anything I wouldn't want them to come across."
Miss McG doesn't read this. She'd know who she was, if she did. If you know me, and my friends, even a little, you'll know who she is. Writing about her, about anyone I know, doesn't make this necessarily less narcissistic. Possibly, it focuses it more on my own indulgences, taking parts of other people, sanitising and packaging them in words, sentences, and posting them online.
I feel torn about it. What right do I have? Is that why I avoid typing up the bad days, the arguments? I leave out most of my romantic disasters for similar reasons. I'm a very judgmental person, and so are you, my dear. Why put the worst of myself in the spotlight?
I don't think writing is brave. I think it is a selection process, a methodical and cunning way of presenting an image, constructing it secretly, delicately, until you can be satisfied with this linguistic projection of yourself. This isn't an expression of my honesty, but a way of ridding myself of the dishonest, the personality that I would like you to think I have.
Bit deep for a Monday morning, yes?