Why do I write?
I’ve written a bit about my exhibitionism, and exhibitionism is certainly part of it. And I’ve written a bit about my insatiable need for approval, and, failing that, at least non-judgmental, neutral receipt of my desires.
But it’s a good question.
A friend commented the other day that writing has become my dope. This seems about right.
I’m not a man of half-measures. (Well, except when I am. But mostly, I’m not.)
Lately, I’ve been stealing moments to write in the same way I used to steal moments to pay for sexual encounters. Not exactly – I have boundaries now, so I don’t steal the time from my family in the same way I used to. But I do stay up later than I might otherwise, write when previously I might have been reading. It’s all a bit of a shock to me.
I never thought of myself really as a “writer.” My wife was joking the other day – she said, “I think that makes you a writer,” when I described my urgent desire/need to write.
But why? Why must I write? And must it (always?) be about sex? I’m not sure about that. I have two other blogs, each far less prolific than this, and each far less compelling to me. My heart tells me of at least two possible paths this blogging could go: I could, successfully, use the sex-blogging as a sort of training ground for writing about the other things that interest me (and believe it or not, there are other things that interest me). Or, I could find myself essentially growing this platform into a larger, less sex-obsessed space. The problem with that latter approach, of course, is that the history here is so sordid, and I think it unlikely I’ll want anyone who knows my name to know about what I’ve written here (other than a hand-picked few).
I don’t know if I’m answering the question: I feel myself flailing.
So once more: why do I write?
First, foremost: I write because (it seems) I have to.
Second: I write because I want to record – my past, my present. For whom? For me, for my wife. Who knows, possibly, I guess, one day for the family more broadly.
Third (and this connects to the first): I write because it feels good – in a crack-like way – for me to speak aloud, to expose to the sunlight and the air, the deepest darkest corners of my mind. Shame is my disease; exposure, my antidote.
Of course you are a writer! You write eloquently and respectfully. You write honestly and without self-indulgence or self-agrandisement.
The last sentence. There’s the value in it. And you are harsh with yourself in achieving that.
Thank you so much.
I have found that blogging is quite addictive. Once you start, it’s a bit difficult to concider stopping.
Yeah – I got that issue too…..
I’m not sure I understand why you’re only possible paths would essentially remove the sex from the writing. Is it because you feel that you’re eventually going to run out of sex stories and…then what? Or do you think that the sex blogging/writing has less merit than your other interests? Or that there’s no way to incorporate everything together since you want to remain anonymous with your sexual history? Or is it all sex writing you want to write anonymously? Or do you think that once you’ve exorcized your demons you won’t want to write about sex anymore?
I just found your blog and am pretty captivated by your writing :), and think I’d want to read what you wrote regardless of the topic – but I love what you choose to write about so maybe it is the combination that I really like.
I hope all those questions I posed don’t sound reductive or like I’m making any kind of assumptions. I’m really very curious as to why the sex would have to go. And kind of sad to be honest. Or maybe I read your post wrong.
First off, that post was written a while ago – I’m not sure how I feel about the question now. It might be a good idea for me to revisit it. But I think what I was getting at in that post was a bit of a lament about the complexity of my topic. I have a wife and a son, and I wouldn’t wish to inflict on either of them a google-able real-life relationship to the guy who writes this blog. That presents some challenges, a sort of “ceiling” on where I can go with this. On the one hand, I could simply be pseudonymous forever, let N. Likes be the dude who broadens, who writes about more. Or I could abandon N. Likes, and be his alter ego, the one with a birth certificate, and write – stuff that I’d be ok with my son’s friends Googling when he’s 13 or 15 or 17.
I recently heard a story of a woman who wrote some astonishingly intimate details of her life in a book with her name on it when her son was about 17. It was remarkably damaging to him.
I’m not at all a believer in secrecy. But I’m a big believer in privacy, and in appropriateness. Honestly, most of what I write about here isn’t appropriate for me to share with my son prior to his adulthood. I think that’s what I was getting at.
But maybe I’ll revisit the topic soon….
And thanks, so much, for your really kind words. I appreciate them.