I wrote tonight, deeply and skillfully. The post sits with my other drafts, it is highly unlikely that it will ever be published. It is the story of a young girl and a young boy, bumbling towards ecstasy for the first time. It made me smile and laugh, those poor awkward kids, all elbows and nerves. Now, though, the warm elixir of words seems to have run dry, every drip and drop used up in the writing of that post...that secret post that will never see the light of day.
It is NaBloPoMo, though, and write and publish, I must. I could hurry and write something passable, but instead I pose a question to you...do you ever write simply for yourself? Pour yourself into something that no eyes but your own will ever see? Is it contrary to your blogging nature? Do you feel that your words are wasted if they can't be shared?
Tonight was the first time in a long time I wrote with that intention. I knew as soon as I put words on the page it would likely be for me and only me. It was oddly satisfying to write for myself, though, the pride I felt in the way I weaved the words together made me long to share them. If I had written about anything else, I'd likely have posted it in the end, but, alas, the fear of making my first sexual experience accessible via Google outweighs the desire to share my writing. We all draw the line somewhere, and if I hadn't drawn it, a certain young boy turned husband and father of two just might have.