When my mom was dying of cancer years ago, I gave her a journal. I told her to write anything she wanted in it. My mother was a consummate reader and a creative writing teacher, so I knew it wouldn't be a stretch for her. After she died, I read the journal. (I don't think it's ever okay to read someone else's journal, but in this case, I knew my mother was alright with it. And she was dead, afterall, making it harder for her to protest.)

Well, it was scathing. Hateful. Mean-spirited. Destructive. Morose. Mad at the world. Mad as hell at the world. I've never let anyone read that journal because most people would misinterpret it; they would think they knew my mother by reading her scrawl.

But they would be wrong - my mother was dying and had every right in the world to unleash. She was purging, letting go. It was not an indicator of her real personality - it was her expression at that moment. My mother was a bon vivant: rebellious, quirky, fun-loving, very conversational. She could also be depressed, overbearing and narcisstic. She could, like all of us, be many paradoxical things, all at once. But her deathbed journal was not her.

My blog is not me. It contains aspects of me, sure. But it is not the gospel according to Beth. If I wrote truthfully and honestly from the daily-living Beth's point of view, you'd nod off about midway through. I take liberties, because I can. I live out fantasies, because I can. I stretch the truth, because I can. Am I lying? Nah. It's creating.

I heard an interview of Orson Welles many years ago. He said he borrowed stories all the time from people. He then built upon them and acted as if they were his own. His take? A good story is a good story. Why mess it up with the truth?

I find my online life to be a form of wish fulfillment. Practical online magic. When I play out a story of mine, I bring it closer to life. I let my subconscious do the talking. Just like children work out many aspects of themselves through play, I do too. Is it the truly me? Nah, it's more likely an aspect of me that needs to be expressed in order to be purged or transformed. Once it's been born, I've already changed. Morphed and moved on. And the truth police have yet to arrest me!

I'm often surprised how many writers feel the need to stick so religiously to the truth instead of furthering their story in a more creative way. Again, that doesn't mean lying. It simply means letting the director in you (and the editor in you) tell a more exciting, lively story, for your readers' sake and for your own sake.

I've read many online pieces where people will regale every detail of a trip, for instance, only to get to the real story on the last day. Cut out the drive. Cut out the stop you made at the gas station where you asked for directions. Cut out the stomach issue you had that made you pull over and buy Pepto Bismol even though you've had bad experiences with Pepto Bismol in the past. (Of course, if these aspects serve your story, keep it. But most of the time, they don't. I swear.)

The cable guy (an acquaintance of mine) came over a few months ago and gave me a big hug, after he had read a particularly depressing blog entry of mine. He was worried about me. Strangely enough, at that very moment, I had a gorgeous man in my bedroom who had been in the process of kissing and biting every inch of my body. I was in a state of pure ecstasy, hardly depressed, and truly resented having to answer the door. I quickly explained to cable guy that it's just a blog, I'm a creative writer and I have to get back to...writing, now!

I don't like the feeling that people think they know  me so intimately. The whole process can feel voyeuristic and self-exploitative. There are several people who are no longer in my life who read my blog and I wish I could stop them. They think they have some bird's eye view into my life, like some virtual peeping Tom. On a bad day, I won't write for that reason alone. There's this one-sided mirror and I'm being watched. And the funny part? It's not even me they're watching. It's a figment of me, that I've created.

But what do you do? Certainly there is something distasteful about this whole process of writing personal essays and posting them online. I'm actually a fairly private person and I battle with that side of myself every time I post a piece. But I do my best to move past it. Yes, it feels like a peep show at times. But I've deemed it more important to share and express and create. At least that's how I feel right now.

I am not my blog. My blog, to me, is like a super power - it gives me a  chance to exercise (or exorcise) aspects of me I want to develop or  ditch. We should never assume we know someone by their online writing.

The cable guy story? Partially true. I won't tell you which part. It is my fictitious life after all.