Nothing's Juicier than Undercooked Steak

A face illuminated only by the light of the screen before it. Eyes staring straight forward, unblinking, focused. Eyebrows scrunched, a slight frown, veins popping slightly from the arms as the fingers clickickickityclick across the keyboard. That's how I imagine the blogger. Fierce. Determined. And here I sit, leaning back on a couch, eyes glazed, typing at the pace of a turtle in no particular rush. The tortoise without a hare.

I see people blogging away their frustrations, painting the internet with harrowing details of the big bad world they're forced to endure, capping off their tirades with, "I just needed to get that off of my chest." They're the ones I see in that dark room with popping veins and determined focus, desperate to spread the gospel according to marx, or trump, or... whomever has been chosen as philosopher of the weak. And it's always this smug sense of personal satisfaction at the end, a round-about way of saying, "look at me and how enlightened I've become." The words lose meaning. Their writing has become an exercise in self-congratulation. Therapy, ready to broadcast.

I do not find writing therapeutic. To me, writing is a raw, loathsome, psychologically painful process. The work involved with identifying my emotions is bad enough, but to write is to give them organization. To write is to spell those emotions out with the sickening detail of an R-Rated slasher flick. Some people find pleasure in self-mutilation. I type.

Writing may be the salt of the Earth, but good writing is the salt of the wound. Let's face it, nobody gives a damn about why you agree with a politician. Nobody gives a damn about your day. Nobody is reading your blog for any reason other than the possibility that they will have an emotional reaction to what you are saying, and damnit you should give it to them. If you have something to say, don't wrap it up in pre-approved language with a self-righteous bow on top. Reach inside. Find an emotion. Articulate it in a way that only you know how to do. Do not tell me you are angry. Tell me your fingernails are drawing blood from your violently quivering palms.

The only thing you need to get off of your chest is your own fist, beating away. If you are writing to show off your own self-proclaimed enlightenment, give up. It's obvious. It isn't worth a second glance, let alone the first. Write to share your emotions with a world who will hate them for what they are: Raw meat in the restaurant that only serves medium-well.

They'll gobble it up, though. Nothing's juicier than undercooked steak.