This is not a blog about politics, the White House, the media, what I had for dinner or who I had in high school (one list is a lot longer than the other), nor is it intended as a bulletin board for my innermost feelings or political opinions, though I don’t preclude writing about any of those subjects (with the iron exception of that last one).
It’s actually not even a blog, rather it’s an online journal, a semi-public thing (a semi-private thing is better way to look at it, like a yard sale) since I have never been able to devote the same energy, time or focus to anything I’ve written to myself, for myself, by myself in the past.
My bookshelves are filled with 99-cent marble notebooks, amputated journals with the first seven pages ferociously filled in, crowded behind by hundreds of blanks from each decade of my adulthood. Those lost thoughts weren’t gold, but even pennies add up over time. On the flip side, the internet brims with thousands of pieces I have written for other people, polished, semi-polished or raw but undeniably completed. My conclusion: I can’t write anything for myself which isn’t, on some level, written for someone else.
Throatbird is a more of a busk than a performance, but I intend to stick to the basic rules of fact and fairness that (mostly) inform my day-job journalism. It will include personal narrative, wide-ranging analysis of culture, art, music, books and bits of reporting on topics off my usual beat.
Most of my private utterances are pretty much what you’d get out of me on a campaign bus, long car ride, a lunch or in a Tweet — observational self-indulgence with a little (hopefully) filtered feedback. Needless to say, nothing I write here is done in my professional capacity or reflects the opinions of my employers.