Something to Say.

The content of my journals has been unusually poor lately.
Mostly because I fear no one really reads them, and also that nagging suspicion that someone mines data from them.
I'm constantly struggling between having something to say and having the ability to say something.
One piece of advice i remember from Natilie Goldberg, "just write," comes back frequently. I also read a post on someone else's blog which had a similar effect. The writer recalled a journalism teacher who described writing as a moral struggle. Because procrastination laziness and fear, lurk among the excuses for not writing, the act of writing becomes a fight against those factors. Furthermore, when there is grave injustice in the world, the struggle becomes serious.
This is not the same as the struggle of a policeman or a soldier, who puts himself or her in harms way. There are obvious satisfactions in the execution of those duties, the execution ro restraint of the enemy, perhaps a certain rush of adrenalin. The writer has none of those. Unless the writer is one of those tag artists who dares to write in another's priviledged space. Even those Graffiti Artists have pride in their work, impossibly high walls, intricate beautiful Byzantine scrawling in sordid places, all give the writer a thrill or a sense of greatness. My spiral bound diary does none of those things.
Likewise the thrill of writing for the Internet has a certain daring, at first, but then the effect wears off, and there are no edible credits. Just a peculiar grey area between the public and private lives of those who blog.