Good intentions

What with electronic journaling and blogs, I'm not sure where I want to record my thoughts and feelings, stories and events. My fingers dash across the keyboard, and I can instantly edit the "dumb" stuff. It's fun. But I have beautifully bound thick books with endless empty pages calling me, coaxing me to write there. I have one that closely guards my most secret ramblings, shame, pride, resentment, lots of things like that are in there. Private. Not something I display. I have a cute little red leather one -- I got it because it was cute, it was little and it was red and it was leather. I put a laughing picture of myself -- a reminder to not take myself so seriously as we melancholies are wont to do, in the cover slot. I planned to record funny things I have heard, stories of my precious grandchildren.... alas, the book is empty. The collection of journals is a testament to my good intentions. I blog, as this page is proof of yet another attempt to add a sense of posterity to my life. But it might showcase stupidity, and a host of other adjectives that I might not want to advertise.

Well, as I learned about a hundred years ago -- writers write. So write. Doens't really matter where. Does it?