I have at least two blog posts that I could put up almost as quickly as I could type them.
But one would hurt someone’s feelings, and the other would make someone mad. So I’ll not write either one of them. Supposedly it’s therapeutic to go ahead and write these things you’re never going to publish, but I can’t do that anymore.
When it was banal, syrupy poetry written by a lovesick adolescent to a girl who would never read it, it was as easy to sit on then as it is to laugh at now. (Oh, dear. I haven’t seen that notebook in over a decade, but I can remember enough of one of those poems to make me cringe. I’d never post it even for a lark now, because I’d then live in horror that its object would read it and somehow know it was about her.)
Now? I suppose my restraint is born of civility, though honestly, it’s not so strong that I’d necessarily trust it after I’d finished writing something of which I was proud. So hold off on those “what a sweet guy”s. On this count anyway, I’d be a real threat to let artistic conceit overpower good manners.
So, they stay unwritten.
Love ya. Mean it.