The two faces of my writing life are the words I publish and my journals, which I don’t. Neither is more truthful, voluminous, or essential to my wellbeing – obverse and reverse of the same coin. This has been true since my writing life began when I was sixteen and five months. I can date its start exactly because that’s when my father died. Suddenly I was figuring out life on my own without monitor, mentor, pal, or the guts either to consult or confess. My father had not been a good guide, but he knew the way through life (or seemed to), so I didn’t have to. Now I was on my own, with nobody to speak with and a desperate need to speak. For a while I’d wanted to be “a writer”: the ostentatious glamor of the calling appealed to me. Now I needed to write – to and for myself – to stay sane.

My published and private accounts differed markedly, often bitterly, in the early years, deriding and decrying one another for falsity and timidity. Neither was just. We argued about sex, romance, longings, ambition, self-discipline, writing, you name it. Our opposition was not pathological, like Dr. Jekyll’s and Mr. Hyde’s or Dorian Gray’s with his closet portrait, but fierce and principled. I favored neither contender, which essentially divided me into thirds: the two combatants (public and private), plus a third to mediate. Such power-sharing, I’m persuaded, is not unusual in conscious lives, though my case may be weird, that neither predominated. The contention transformed me into a detached observer of my history. A fourth self, like a moviegoer in the dark, followed the adventures of the active three.

These days, maybe from exhaustion, my public and private selves mostly get along, reducing their supervisor’s responsibilities. My journals murmur fewer discreditable disclosures. I share as much of me as I think might interest you. This is Jane’s doing, from whom, because she seems to understand me, I keep no meaty secrets. Retirement, too, alleviates any need to put on a show or parrot a company line.

The content and style of my public and private utterances differ, though frequently nowadays they bleed into each other. Having begun this meditation in my journal, I realized it might be missive-worthy, so will mute myself after six hundred words and type it. The reverse also occurs. I’ll start typing something, then think better of it, because the concern’s too private or my tone too whiny. Few of you, for example, are as curious about the inner workings of English literature as I am. Sometimes I vent frustrations I’d prefer not be overheard. Sometimes the specifics of an event lack metaphoric resonance. I don’t want you scratching your head, “Why is he telling me this?”

I favor neither offspring. Neither is more true, real, or carefully composed. I absurdly assume my journals will be read one day by a successor self I intend to please. Time will have bleached away the shame of any disclosure. The dead do not blush.

This endless colloquy of selves entertains, educates, enlightens, and tranquilizes its producer. One or the other of me always has something to say. If I’m floundering for a topic, I may quiz myself why. My revulsion to Trump, on the other hand, worth voicing aloud – how can I not! – is stale news to my journals: alright, already, I get it, the pages groan.

While loneliness bred this habit, delight persists in it. Never bored or without a loved one to jabber with, my world is always new. How grand is that!