Lack of an Internal Monologue

Someone said to me recently that one of the reasons they liked me was because I wasn’t afraid to say anything. They found my lack of an internal monologue an admirable quality. And for most of my life I’ve always liked that part of myself. I’ve liked throwing myself out there and seeing how people responded. This page, for a great long while, has served as a venting tool for me, a public art project, the goal of which has been to see how a readership will react to the complete life story of an average American male.

But this place is getting to me.

You’ve seen the signs. You’ve read the entries in which I’ve contemplated the end of the site. Surely, you’ve had the notion by now that this isn’t as fun for me as it used to be. And recently I’ve been thinking about what to do.

Just now, I was sifting through old entries and I was mortified by how much of me was out there for people to see. The early stuff, my paper journals from 1994 and such, they’re just so painful to read. And part of me would like to just take them down, but the other part of me argues that if I take some of it down I should just take it all down. The goal of the project, however painful, was to tell the story of a whole life, not just the convenient, easy parts of it.

I’ve considered going to a weekly format, which would hopefully give me some more time to contemplate what I was going to write. I’ve considered closing it all down and maybe using the page for some ongoing fiction project. I’ve even considered closing it down and letting the domain rot until it’s sold off to some porn or spam company.

I know you tire of these thoughts. Fuck ‘em has been the prevailing theme in the past, when I’ve been more worried about dwindling readership. But it isn’t a worry about readership this time. This is a concern about the worth of the project to me, about the effect it might have on my writing career somewhere down the line.

Because, as down as I’ve been on my writing today (ask Stef and she’ll tell you how bad it got), I still think there will come a day sometime soon when I get a byline, when an agent who’s read my story and is trying to decide whether to contact me will go looking on the net for more of me and find some entry I wrote in 1994, when I was seventeen…

Deep down, I know that the project still has potential. But I’m getting tired. More than two years of daily entries… It’s starting to weigh a little too heavily.