Rousseau, in discussing his particular confessional style of memoir writing, writes, “I am commencing an undertaking, hitherto without precendent, and which will never find an imitator…I am not made like any of those I have seen; I venture to believe that I am not made like any of those who are in existence. If I am not better, at least I am different.”

I have been blogging (or something akin to it online) for nearly 10 years. Before blogs were blogs, I was putting my thoughts on message boards and inviting comments there. I didn’t start this off as a confessional. I didn’t create it to become a subject of history or to become, like Samuel Pepys in his autobiographical style, an accumulative subject. I didn’t start a blog to write about my marginalized life. And yet, here I am – confessing, being a subject of history and an accumulative subject. I write about the ways I feel marginalized in today’s society.

I began this journey to have somewhere safe and free to write. I began this as a place to get those writing energies out, somewhere, anywhere. I write because I need to write. It fulfills me in ways that photography doesn’t. My words paint the pictures. It can be more blatant or more subtle depending on what I do with the words.

I’m working on my master’s thesis. I’m looking inward, at myself. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m self-absorbed, writing these past 10 years. I’m looking at my words, my photos, and determining what type of audience I’ve been writing for, what my voice has been, what type of identity I have created, and if I’m believable to anyone but myself.

I think I am. I mean, this is me – the real me – here on these pages. I tell the truth as I know it. I share my world as I see it, warts and all. But is it believable? Does it resonate? Does it matter?

This is me without the filters of big publication machinery. Without an editor. Without a publisher. My autobiography. My accounting of my life – here, right in front of you. My sorrows, my joys, my fears, my triumphs. All right here. In technicolor. For the world to see immediately.

Me.