I have an interior monologue when I sit down to write.
When I write about grieving, my senses are heightened. What do I want to say? Have I said this before? Am I churning through the same moments, over and over? Will anyone want to read this? Do I care if anyone reads this?
When I write about our day-to-day life, I try to think about what I want to capture: a combination of the “ordinary” moments and the “special” moments. I know that likely my kids will read it someday, so there is a mix of honesty and respect for their lives. And respect for my husband.
I often formulate the words in my head in advance. I cannot always capture them because they will come to me at in-opportune times, like in the car or almost asleep. Sometimes I regret the words that escape before I have had a chance to record them. I have taken to writing on my phone, therefore always with me.
I think about the audience. I mull over in my head the reactions. How my pain might trigger another’s pain. How my pain might be shared. How others may not understand my pain. The writing is for me, my expression, but I am sensitive to its impact.
I am conscious of my style. I often write in parallels, taking a single thought and repeating it or expanding upon it. It helps me to process. When I write about my day, I am more apt to write conversationally or informally.
Much of my writing is intentional. The words are carefully selected. I have a conversation with myself about the permanence of a public forum. It brings both a release in the embrace and empathy from others, and a limitation in what I choose to keep private.