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Wednesday, February 11, 2004

What Sort of Diary?

I went a bit link crazy today. No, a LOT link crazy.

I finally got around to seeing The Hours. I was probably one of the first to read the book. But, in spite of my love for all things Streep, I didn't see the movie until last night.

The DVD had some great special features, and I was particularly pleased with the Virginia Woolf biography.

I know these words have been posted on countless blogs before, but Virginia Woolf's thoughts on keeping a diary are so applicable to so many of us who blog. If you've seen this before, just consider it a reminder.

What sort of diary should I like mine to be?

Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly,
so elastic that it will embrace anything solemn, slight or beautiful that comes into my mind.

I should like it to resemble some deep, old desk,
a capacious hold-all in which one flings a mass of
odds and ends without looking them through.

I should like to come back after a year or two
and find that the collection had sorted itself and
refined itself and coalesced -- as such deposits so mysteriously do -- into a mold,
transparent enough to reflect the light of our life
and yet steady, tranquil compounds
with the aloofness of a work of art.
- - Virginia Woolf

The pressure is off. I don't have to be as politically savvy as Adam or top (no pun intended) Ryan's steamy exploits.

I can't begin to arrange my words as artfully as he can.

My life is nowhere near as exciting as his or his.

I am not as funny as Skot or Greg . But, damn, I want to be.

My blog is ugly and bland when compared to...well, most people's, but especially Philo's.

But Toaster Oven is mine, all mine. I am so pleased to be part of such a creative and stimulating dialogue. I had no idea that blogging would enhance my life so much. I think differently and am conversing with interesting people and learning new things every day.

It is a bit scary to have Virginia Woolf as a role model, I admit. There are rivers galore in Portland, and the temptation to drown myself pulls at me every time George W. opens his mouth. But, thankfully, I have a source of comfort Virginia Woolf never had.

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