In the Louis L'Amour story "Conagher" the lonely widow has no one to talk to so she ties poems to the tumbleweeds and the wind takes them away. These days we use the Web. We share private, personal details on Facebook, blogs etc. having no idea who will read them. It is like posing naked for strangers when we would never consider stripping in front of friends and family. So why am I publishing writings I would never burden friends with--my homely brain children?
For me, writing is a coping mechanism. So is my sense of humor, unfortunately. I thought writers were people compelled to write. Now I am compelled but who on earth would want to read it? Maybe nobody, but this way I don't have to know. I can get writing out of my system without rejection slips.
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