If I’m honest, I don’t know what direction this blog is going in. I don’t think it has one. I’m only a handful of posts in, so I may yet develop one, but right now this is more of an incoherent and infrequently updated online diary than a dedicated blog.

I am ok with this.

It is probably too incoherent to really attract a readership.

I am also ok with this.

“Why write a blog at all?” I hear the silent voices of my imaginary readership cry. I have no answer. I love notebooks. I love hand writing out diary entries and letters. I have countless, beautiful, empty books I have collected up just crying out to have all their pages filled and yet here I sit, typing away. Perhaps the reason is that I have always written my diaries with an imaginary reader in mind. I never expected any one to read my diaries but I wrote them as if I were speaking to someone. Not a specific someone, I had no one in mind when I wrote, but just someone. I wanted to get my feelings out, to express myself. In an abstract way, I wanted to be heard.

I was not heard, my only reader was myself, but the act itself was cathartic. I felt a relief from the outpouring. In many ways, keeping a blog could enable my fantasy of a reader, a kind listener on whose shoulders my burden is shared, to become more real. It is possible that someone will actually read this, after all.

All the multiple voices of the internet imply that my desire to be heard, even if only in an abstract or imagined way, is not an unusual desire. As our world gets bigger and other people seem to connect with people all over the world with ease and confidence, it can leave those of us with quieter voices feeling smaller and less and less able to be heard. So, rightly or wrongly, we shout louder.


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