So I’m sitting outside on my balcony, as I’ve discussed before, wading about inside my brain trying to make sense of the mess of thoughts floating in there like so much refuse. And one of these thoughts concerns this blog: If it’s to serve as a journal for me—which was, after all, its purpose—what should I write about next? And it occurs to me that that’s a very stupid question to ask. Shouldn’t a journal simply record whatever sewage can be skimmed from one’s head? Asking, “What should I write about?” is as inane as asking, “What should I think about?”
And yet, I can’t really help it. Surprisingly enough to me, several people actually read the blurb I jotted down last night. More surprisingly, several of those several actually took the time to comment on what I had written, some even encouraging me to write more.
But therein lies the dilemma: I now have an audience. And an audience, however understanding, has expectations. And failing to meet those expectations quickly repels said audience. And no one wants to forfeit an audience they’ve gained, or at least no normal, sociable person (how odd that I would describe myself that way…).
So the question immediately changes from, “What am I thinking?” to “What am I thinking that would be interesting enough to my audience to be worth posting up there?” and “If it sucks or is largely uninteresting, will my audience abandon me?”
All of this, of course, colors the next entry. If it’s written without regard to the audience, the fear of being found uninteresting has already laid its tiny black eggs in some dark corner of my mind, which colors the entry towards apathy and defeatism. If it’s written to be enticing to the audience, then it’s colored towards insincerity or some forced reflection.
And so, obligation has already set in. And the question now becomes, “To whom is my obligation? Is it to me or my audience?” Neither answer is incorrect, and both impact this intended journal in a negative way.
As I finish that last paragraph, I realize that this entry will have no solid ending; I haven’t decided to whom I am more obliged, or even if I care what the answer is to that question. All I do know at this point is that the image of those tiny black eggs hatching really creeps me out.