UNWRITTEN

Sometimes we regret our failure to write about things that really interest us. The reason we fail is probably that to write about them would prove embarrassing. The things that interested us in the past week, for example, and that we were unable or unwilling to write about (things that stand out clear as pictures in our head) were: the look in the eye of a man whose overcoat, with velvet collar, was held together by a bit of string; the appearance of an office after the building had shut down for the night, and the obvious futility of the litter; the head and shoulders of a woman in a lighted window, combing her hair with infinite care, making it smooth and neat so it would attract someone who would want to muss it up; Osgood Perkins in love with Lillian Gish; a man on a bicycle on Fifth Avenue, a short eulogy of John James Audubon, who spent his life loafing around, painting birds; an entry in Art Young’s diary; about a sick farmer who didn’t know what was the matter with himself but thought it was probably biliousness; and the sudden impulse that we had (and very nearly gratified) to upend a large desk for the satisfaction of seeing everything on it slide off slowly onto the floor.

-E. B. White
The New Yorker
04/26/1930

E. B. White is probably my favorite author. I adore Strunk & White’s Elements of Style and Essays of E. B. White is favored vacation reading. I am presently reading his Writings From the New Yorker: 1925-1976. If Mr. White were living today, he’d presumably be a blogger of the highest authority. Witty, succinct, timely and timeless, his nuggets of prose would be perfect posts.

Last night Jeff and I talked about what’s behind a blogger's content choices. We’ve talked about it before: motivation, intention and audience.

I pursued a journalism degree and had hopes of reporting for the Akron Beacon Journal right about the time that they significantly shrunk staff and budget. Almost ten years later, I am poking around the blogosphere trying to find the boundary between public and private, personal and confessional, noteworthy and not worth mentioning.

I am always surprised when I discover a link to Lustfelt or someone tells me that they've read my post. I often tell myself and others that I write with the “nobody reads my blog” frame of mind. Lies! I don’t write it as if nobody reads it and now Mr. White has me wondering what's in my “unwritten” file.