Dear Ones,
Here is why I love to write you here: I can erase my words. In speaking, I am just as careless with words as the next yahoo; sputtering nonstop meaningless drivel like David Mamet's characters, but, when I write my words, I also must read them, and that means that I choose them much more carefully. I am composed, instead of blathering. It is nice to construct oneself this way- I recommend it.
If you imagine talking to people, a dialogue, you can see that silences must be filled, and sentences must trail off, and words are more about sound than precision. I often rehearse, in my mind, what I will say when I see so and such a person, and then when I am with them, of course, a million things happen, and all the beautiful sentiment that I practiced pouring forth has evaporated in slanting sunlight through a window, or a Mustang roaring by, or the flurry of energy in my companion's mood.
Which is why, dear reader, I love to say to you the things I mean in written words. Although, if the sunlight slants in, I accept that you might misconstrue in the actual moment of reading, but you can rest assured that I meant if not what you read, then at least what I wrote.
