I write for work and I write for fun, and I write for something inbetween. I’d call this blog something inbetween. It lacks the specificity of working for a client, the need to actively cultivate a voice that is outside of my own and listened to mostly by lizard brains. But it also lacks the free-spirited imaginary audience of a roleplaying game or creative writing exercise which I write, not for myself exactly, but a perfected self-as-audience that does not actually exist. I write for a version of myself more exacting than I would ever be for any author I’ve ever read, more critical but also more loving. 

This blog is written more like a diary, but a diary with an audience in mind, an audience that isn’t me. 

I’ve been watching a television program about John Wilkes Booth. He wrote a journal so contrived and self-aware that it was barely worthy of the title. More like a sorta boring piece of over-wrought fiction written with a very direct self-insert of the most imagined sort. 

While I don’t make anything up for this blog, I do exclude some things. Maybe in doing so I deprive my audience of truth and myself of honest reflection.

That might be something that’s going on, but multiple can be happening at once. Doing one thing, or not doing it does not shut the door, the number of hours in a day remains the same, and they’ll get used up either which way.