Beyond the truth

It's come to my attention that some of my former readers think I'm being mysterious or possibly exclusive — that I have some fabulous hidden blog. But, no, I just took this one down for awhile and haven't been writing a word.

These past months were an experiment in telling the truth, and — no.

I originally had no thought of telling the truth. I kept it in for at least a couple years, until it exploded, semi-privately, at home. Steve took it in and urged me to share with the larger world — that someone would understand.

I've come to the conclusion that it's not so. I'm sure it's mostly my fault, which pains me as a writer. I guess you can't blog about some of what you think without people thinking that's all of what you think — but writing down all of what you think is burdensome, to say the least, if not impossible. I never felt I was expressing myself fully, and what I did express found little resonance.

I think that's what I was hoping for most of all: an echo out there of "me, too!"

But, barring telling the truth, what is there in its place? I get tired sometimes of being multiple people. This crowd knows this face, and this crowd another. But what has been the point of masks, or even of dropping them? It hasn't preserved friendships to be half myself, anymore than it's preserved them to be fully myself.

It's hard to know what to write when I don't know who my audience is anymore. I think I'll just have to write back into the void and see what shakes out.

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