“A man who fears ridicule will never go far, for good or ill: he remains on this side of his talents, and even if he has genius, he is doomed to mediocrity.”–E.M. Cioran
I was nervous about publishing my last post. It was a great joy to write, but I worried people might think I’d finally gone nuts. Perhaps I had hitched a ride on the hypomania train, my freak flag flying on the other side of depression.
Despite my honesty here, I’m still holding plenty back. Not all ideas find their way online. Some retire to the privacy of my journal. Others are destined to roam the hinterlands of my psyche. More than a few self-truths never emerge, but I know they’re up to no good.
Good writers generate themes; great writers develop a distinct voice. How much of blogger-Chuck is the real me? How much of poet-Chuck is the real me? How cleverly has blogger-Chuck adopted the persona of depressed-Chuck?
What do I want you to think of me when I’m nothing but a ghostwriter projecting inner shadows?
Perhaps our good friend Mr. Cioran can shed some light on the subject of secret-telling and how I should compose myself going forward:
“Write books only if you are going to say in them the things you would never dare confide to anyone.”