I'm Ron Burgandy?

It’s interesting the way writing evolves. I have so many old journal entries and essays that I’ve written over the years and more and more they begin to sound less and less like me. Even things I wrote senior year sound so unfamiliar, as though I’m reading the thoughts of someone else entirely. I generally don’t read over recent writings, but found myself doing so yesterday. I tend to read the entries that people have commented on more than the others. The only reason I mention it is because I noticed how, even from a few months ago, my writing suddenly sounds so different, the biggest change being the barrage of questions.

I think I was taught, somewhere along the lines, not to ask questions when I write. Things need to be a statement, not an inquisition, as that leaves room for doubt. If your reader doubts you, you lose all of your power as the narrator and everything falls apart. Your story loses its credibility. It does make sense I suppose, but at the same time, I like the questions. They just sort of hang there, and I guess in some ways, they make me feel MORE connected to the reader, not less. In truth, they are all really asking the same question. Am I the only one questioning everything this way?

Yes, it’s true my questions leave room for doubt, but it makes sense because clearly, I doubt myself. I just need the comfort of these rhetorical questions. I need to feel like those who read this are sitting at their computers nodding along with me. I need to feel less alone in my thoughts. I’m fairly certain that most people drive themselves crazy about things the same way I do, but it’s nice to share that craziness with the world.

Some guy named Frank started this blog called Post Secret (located here: www.postsecret.blogspot.com), where people decorate a postcard, write their secret on it, and send it in for him to post. I find it so strangely beautiful. It’s so comforting to know that you’re not alone. Of course, the majority of the secrets are not a reflection of me, but I’m sure they’re a reflection of someone, and that alone makes it a worthy cause. It’s such a poetic way to prove that really, everyone’s fucked up, probably worse than you assume you are. It’s so funny the way we label ourselves as weird or crazy or messed up because of course, there is no such thing as normal to compare yourself to, no such thing as normal to base that off of. So doesn’t that mean that being normal consists, paradoxically, of admitting that you’re not normal?

There I go with the questions again. This isn’t even what I had intended to write about, but I don’t regret it. It’s interesting the way writing evolves like that. So what now? Should I stop asking questions? It may be a reflection of self-doubt, but perhaps it’s simply the product of watching too many episodes of sex and the city (which is probably more the case than anything intellectual or Freudian). Often, the question is much better than the answer, so for now, I’ll just let that one hang in the air. I’ll picture you, sitting at your computer, nodding along, helping me to feel less alone.