I had a great conversation with Roommate J last night about why I have a blog and my past experiences keeping journals.
For most of my life--and this is probably the Catholic thing kicking in--I had the guiltiest relationship to my diaries. Either I felt like I wasn't writing in them enough, or I felt like what I was writing wasn't what I should be writing. For example, I spent five pages on the ins and outs of my first high school winter formal, and one paragraph on more dramatic family events of the same year. Sometimes I would go months without writing and then would try to sum everything up in bullet points in my next entry (that habit hasn't entirely died, it seems).
When I started Hall of the Revels, it was a way to keep my family up to date on my college search and decision process. Since then, it's become more of a place for me to tell stories of noteworthy events that I don't want to forget. And, while I still feel guilty if I don't write for a while, I don't worry about balance since this is a public forum and I decided from the beginning not to put incredibly personal things online.
Example of something I don't want to forget: This morning I set my alarm for 7:20, got up, dressed, and ventured out into the 21 degree morning to sign up for Creative Writing. I had thought that the only class which would fit my schedule would be taught by Edmund White, and although I had resigned myself to taking it (he's awesome, and an amazing teacher, but he had taught me before and I had been looking forward to someone new) I was less enthused than last year when I braved the early morning hours for a chance with Jeffrey Eugenides. I was the 17th person in line (even with signups opening at 9:00) but I didn't really care because Edmund White is often the last to fill up (not as famous with a mainstream audience?) and I assumed I was in the clear. When I got to the front of the line and sat down with the preternaturally friendly woman running the whole thing, I realized two things. One: Joyce Carol Oates was teaching on Thursday as well. Two: her section was not yet closed.
Needless to say, I signed up for her course. I'd been girding my loins all semester in preparation for a class taught by Princeton's First Lady of Intimidation and Critique, and the chance to follow up was too good. Unexpected victories taste especially good on seven hours of sleep and I bounced back to my dorm with contentment.
But first I stopped at Landau's to buy new gloves. Winter outside of Chicago is supposed to be cold, not painful, and I suspect I left my last pair in the bathroom at Wegmans.

P.S. I still keep a handwritten journal. But it's in a super-secret location and contains only personal or ethical quandaries I'm trying to wrap my head around by writing it out. It will likely never see the light of day, and I only update it about once or twice a year, but since I started Hall of the Revels that's all okay with me.