I received a rather harsh email a few days ago criticizing one of my past entries.

This entry isn't about that. Or, rather, it is, but not in the way you might be thinking.

I replied to the sender, addressing his points, and we exchanged correspondence briefly before finally being able to agree to disagree for the most part. The major point of contention, after all, was actually one on which we were in agreement. The point of contention was simply a variation upon the theme that's as old as the published word.

How much obligation does the writer have to the reader?

Of course, I'm fully aware that to say that I keep this journal solely for myself would be something of a half-truth. If this were purely for me, then I'd have no reason to put it on a globally-visible source; anything from a scrap of napkin to a locked notebook would suffice. I've written on both of those mediums, and neither satisfied the particular itch I have to share my thoughts, feelings, and opinions. The web journal scratches that itch nicely, allowing me to communicate as well as explore.

It's funny that I've come to this argument, since it's one I've debated with a different focus in the not-too-distant past. In college, studying music, the discussion circled around whether we as composers were writing for ourselves or for the audience. The "for ourselves" crowd tended to be the more esoterically-oriented composers, writing either with numbers or electronically modified wolf howls, random note generators or complex matrices. The "for the listener" crowd focused upon accessibility, working to make sure that specific meanings were conveyed and understood. The first group of composers accused the latter of "pandering" or "selling out"; the second accused the first of creating nothing but elaborate exercises in mental masturbation.

As it happened, I couldn't decide which side of the fence on which I should stand. Nothing unusual about that. In my undergraduate school, the audience-driven composers made up the majority, and I followed the flow, writing largely conservative works. In grad school, a new world of pretension was opened to me, and I found that while the attitudes were grating, the music didn't have to be. I dabbled in everything and eventually settled upon a voice that was somewhere in the cracks - too complicated to be immediately accessible for the average listener, but not so internalized as to be completely incomprehensible. It was my own voice, and I loved it.

So what did I feel? My music was certainly satisfying for me to write. It was healing, expanding, and cathartic. At the same time, I derived a tremendous amount of fulfillment from sharing those sounds with others. The sight of an audience, rapt with attention as they listened to my deepest-held feelings presented musically, made me flush with indescribable pleasure. The intimacy was beyond physical, beyond emotional. It was spiritual.

Music was communication and personal reflection. It could be both all at once, in a perfectly beautiful balance.

And the journal?

Well, it's not just for me, as I said above. At the same time, it's not just for you either, begging your pardon. It's for both of us. Can't it be?

Going back to the email, I reflect on his point. If I address a topic about which I feel strongly, one that is perhaps debatable to controversial, do I have a duty to try to persuade the reader to my way of thinking? I don't think I do.

As far as I'm concerned, my only obligation here is to be honest. That doesn't mean I am compelled to completely reveal everything I'm thinking or feeling; the only one in a position to do any compelling is the writer. Honesty is different than vulnerability. In this case, it refers more to a certain level of integrity. The journal is my written and published representation of myself, and my own integrity forces me to not misrepresent myself. I can withhold, but not betray - not you, and not me.

It's not a bad way to think. After all, if the music I wrote had contained emotions that were not my own, I'd never have felt the same level of connection with the audience, and I'd never have received the satisfaction of intimacy. The same holds for this journal.

Of course, following those same lines of logic, another journaler may find that their own personal integrity requires them to hold a different level of openness. Some may choose complete anonymity, while others revel everything but their Social Security Number. Integrity of being will lead us each to our own method of communication, be it with ourselves or with the world.

Where does this leave me? In a roundabout way, I've come to the question of why I write at all. Why communicate if not to persuade? Why share if not to convince?

Herein lies the self-driven aspect of my journal. When I vent a frustration, I do so in the hope of healing and of exploring my own emotions. If you who read have felt the same frustration and can commiserate, it helps me along the path; if you disagree with my view and politely share those feelings of disagreement, it also helps, since it allows me to either become flexible or to more solidly understand my own beliefs. In any case, writing allows me to grow.

In the past nearly three years, I've written about many topics that struck close to home. Like a primal scream, they've come tearing from my throat and left me feeling shaken, yet cleansed. In many cases, I haven't even had to revisit the topic once it had been spilled onto the screen. I've moved on.

If I allow myself to become wrapped up in trying to change the world via this web site, I don't heal. It's not who I am; I've never been a crusader, and the ability to reach an audience of listeners doesn't obligate me to become something I'm not - quite the contrary.

Writing here moves me inward as it echoes outward. Without the inward anchor, the outward sounds are meaningless.