The Unblogables

One of the groomsmen in Dan & Jenn's wedding happens to be a poet in the final stages of his MFA. In the limo, we talked briefly about writing. He asked if I still wrote fiction - a question I get a lot after I've confessed that I have an MFA. I laughed a little and said no. I told him that I was blogging and journaling a lot but still not quite ready to get back in the saddle with fiction.

I wondered what he thought from that side of the fence - the final throes of the thesis work; the squeezing out of every last drop of energy you have to put into it; the feeling that something you'd put that much of yourself into had to amount to something. And me looking at him from what seemed a great distance and thinking about how I can't even seem to remember how to put a story together anymore.

Later I thought about how I had matriculated from this very serious writing place to writing posts about Paris Hilton's unfortunate wardrobe choice on magazine covers and broken computers. And of course, there is the other side - the personal journaling and sorting out of life that takes place in the offline corridors of this machine that's for me and me alone. I often think it's my better writing, but as many of the bloggers have discussed at length, there's certain unblogable territory. Online, we're all iceberg writers - just the tip that belies what goes far deeper under the surface.

I like my career and respect the integrity of it and my clients, and so I refrain from writing more than what skims the surface and holds on to some level of anonimity. And my family doesn't even know the blog exists, but there's certain sacredness to that part of my life. There's just a certain amount of what goes on in daily life that's top security access, that's not just for anyone who happens by.

I guess I felt a little guilty admitting that all I was writing at this point was a blog and a journal. I didn't further incriminate myself by telling him that I also write ad copy for The Man.

I want to write what's honest and gritty and close to the bone. But it's too hard when you don't know who's watching. Or who might get hurt. Or fired. Or angry. I admire you nonfictioneers who are willing to tell that kind of truth and make it artful. I'll just have to collect my unblogables and change the names to protect the innocent and produce a story that's honest and gritty and close to the bone. And pretend it's a lie.

Artwork that captured this feeling perfectly: Critique of Judgment, Observer by Ralph L. Steeds