(perforated lines -- you can't resist 'em)

 
(bear in a chair)
-- Thursday, May 11, 2000 --

 

10:44 p.m. I have successfully avoided a writing job I have to do -- a difficult writing job -- all day long. I could probably avoid it for the rest of my life if I let myself not think about how guilty I feel. Always do the hard thing; the true path to happiness lies in doing the hardest thing ... once you do the hard thing all the other things fall into place.

But it'ssssssssssoooooooo harrrrrrrrd.

So, how about this bear on the chair? Sitting out on the sidewalk, right in the middle of a bed of flowers? No? Nothing to see here -- move along. Take the picture and keep on walking.

Today I spent some pleasant time avoiding my writing job and reading the archives of a new journal group, formed to celebrate the history of the online journal. Very compelling reading for anyone interested in this interesting new life form. Lots of new-to-me but older journals to explore and dig around in and admire.

I then spent some quality time at one of the earlier journals, Living in the Bonus Round, and I am looking forward to getting to know the author, Steve Schalchlin, when I don't have such guilt about lingering and having fun hanging over me like a sticky gray gauze. And! Since the new nominees for this quarter's Diarist Awards were recently announced, there's a whole extra helping of good reading ahead for anyone who's eligible to vote.

And as usual, people are fussing about the awards again. Broad, sweeping statements are being made about quality and quantity, and if you were fortunate enough to get nominated and you value your mental health, you might be wise to avoid all mailing lists until the trouble blows over. Ever since my own experience last quarter, I will never feel the same about any nominees, ever again.

When you're on the outside of the horse race, you feel as if you can comment on the various horses with impunity. Smack a flank here, kick a shin there ... look at the brightness of its eyes, the sheen of its coat. It has no feelings -- it's only there for your amusement and your betting and judging acumen.

But oh, Lordy, if you are the horse -- oh, how it smarts.

You are one of three. It's either you or the other two, and you are judged and dismissed, dissed and missed, over and over again before the final ballots are counted. It feels like a public stoning, but with very little pebbles.

And you can't very well develop a thick skin, now can you? If you're even the slightest bit interested in improving your writing, you'd better remain overtly sensitive, tightly wound, highly strung -- or you won't be worth reading. Fascinating dilemma, wouldn't you say?

Thin skin that bruises so easily is the very same membrane through which we sense the world. Feelings are your quivering antennae, and they can get hurt very easily.

So, you put your precious journal out on the web for all to see, and for anyone to judge. And now it's way the hell out there, getting pinged night and day. My experienced advice? Try to get out of the way of the Indiana Jones boulder of jealousy that is hurtling toward you and remember what they used to say on Hill Street Blues: Be careful out there.

Try to remain the person who wrote it in the first place. That's the hardest thing of all.

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