Many eons ago in internet years, a little shack called Open Diary appeared and many people found community. It wasn’t always the prettiest place, but the folks were always there when they were needed. Most of them were on the site for 10 years or more so they felt like they really knew each other.
I was on the site about 13 years. Though I had multiple diaries, I still kept up with a group of people. We looked out for one another and saw each other through not great times.
I hadn’t spent much time on the site lately, the owner had other priorities in recent years. Accessing the web site had become difficult. I also tried to have a more public web presence by moving all of my writing here. It ended up making me write less, and it made me change what was writing about, but I don’t regret the decision.
Another reason I really stopped using it, was that I had needed to distance myself from a few members at the time. I’d kept in touch with others elsewhere, but I’m still thankful for all the folks that I got to meet from the service.
OD is currently in the process of shutting down.
Though OD may or may not have been the first social network, it was pretty much a template for those that followed.
I was reading something the other day where some folks with atrocious reading comprehension were staunchly sticking to their idea that the characters in the book they were reading were white. They were worse than those tacky dimwits on Twitter dogging The Hunger Games cast.
I’m as cool as I’m ever going to get with the majority of people defaulting to white when they read vague descriptions of characters in books. The less described the person is, it does make it a bit easier for the reader to relate to. I must be a bit off because when I read works with “flexible” protagonists, the narrative fills in the blanks and they tend to all look different in my head. Reading something over at a different age has yielded different results at times.
But when I write, the person in my head is non-white a vast majority of the time. Even the comic, in its deceptively lazy black and white color scheme, is pretty colorful.
It’s odd to me to imagine nothing but people that look like me.
The sad thing about this oft-neglected space is that I write something basically every day. I even do it by hand with those archaic things people refer to as pen and paper. Somewhere in the transition from page to post, the evil editor in my head intercepts and shreds the documents.
I’ve even tried just skipping the pen and going right for the post. There are probably more mutilated drafts in this database than there are actual posts. It isn’t even that the little editor hates the words, they are just never situated right and become painful to look at until they are arranged correctly. Unfortunately, this rarely happens.
At least this attempt to even the score with the murderous bastard turned out in my favor.