There are times when I feel like a deer caught in headlights. I know what is coming, I know it's going to hurt, but I can't avoid it. I can't bear to watch, but I can't look away. Like simultaneously being a passerby driving in the accident and being in the accident itself. I can see it. I can feel it. It's me, yet it has nothing to do with me.

I have this friend who shall remain nameless... for now. She started writing an online journal, partially in response to my own. I mean, she saw mine and realized it might help her put some of the pieces of her own life together.

She saw the works of others too. In many ways they inspired her more than my own work, because they kept going when I crashed and burned. She was impressed by their dedication. She was inspired by the fire of their words and the convictions of their ideas. She was amazed at the courage of some, and amused by the immaturity of others.

And I found a new appreciation for what I had tried to abandon, by looking through her eyes.

She started in her journal like many do; talking about her day. I spoke to her of the importance of writing about the now, but that wasn't enough for her.

She found some calendars of past years where she had left personal notes to herself. She marked days when she went out with a special someone, then marked when they 'did it' in a way that only she would recognize. She even marked when he asked her to marry him. There were other notations too, and as she absorbed them, she saw patterns and she saw stories that she wished she had told then.

She wanted to tell these stories, on top of talking about now. Perhaps they would be separate entries, and it would be a separate section of her website.

The calendar seemed as if it were from a completely different person. She had grown so much since then. That "special someone" was now the father of her children and an enemy hiding behind divorce lawyers. Her life was so different. She recognized that other her, but could tell the tales from a more removed position.

And so she began, but as the months have progressed I've heard her talk less and less about her personal project. I assumed it was because my own personal plights recently. I left my own online journal for personal reasons and I surmised perhaps she stopped talking to me about her own journal because she felt the topic still a soft spot with me.

I'm so self-absorbed. I'm so vain. I think everything is about me. But then admittedly, a majority of diarists are. Otherwise, why do we write about ourselves?

Recently she talked about her online diary, but she spoke of the design of the site. She was expanding her knowledge of html and other webskills, and was excited not with the content of her site, but its functionality and how it interacted with different types of browsers. A hard process, but one she was embracing.

'What about the stories?' I asked her. She'll get to them. 'Have you submitted your journal to webrings and The Diary Registry?' She would in time.

She spoke about how she was afraid family members might see her site. Friends might misunderstand. Complete strangers could offer her insight, but they might also judge her harshly. She longed for an objective opinion about where she came from and where she was going, yet she also feared that opinion.

I looked at her and felt suddenly queasy, like I were inside a funhouse of mirrors and someone had just spun me around in fast circles. I was looking at a twisted image of myself. That simultaneous longing for acceptance and understanding coupled with the fear of being misunderstood. And then the realization. Strangers can't tell you who you are. That comes from within. So why write? What is the reason? Am I writing this to engender an audience or am I building this for me?

And it is these questions, when they repeat and become more prevalent, which threaten to squeeze the life out of a diarist's love for the work. We must be introspective and self-examine our lives it is the purpose of writing an online journal after all. However, to turn inward too much is to be like the deer in the road. You want to run away and you want to return to the safety of darkness but you can't. You are consumed.

The energy that once compelled you to start the journal becomes the fire that consumes it.

I looked in her eyes, and noticed the expression of her face change, as she no doubt sensed my demeanor quietly turn serious.

I wanted to let it all out like a floodgate and hope my lips could keep up. It's not about the look and feel of the website. That is all inconsequential. Should I use frames? Should I learn flash? What if MSIE does one thing and Netscape does something else?

And what of all those people in my life, and the ones who will be in my life tomorrow. What of them? Their many varied opinions and mindsets and ideas. Will they accept me? Will they even read me? Will they just click on by?

It's not about the functionality and the design. That's icing on the cake. It's not about the password protection and the anonymity. That's just a security blanket. It's not just about what you allow yourself to say, and it's not just about what you can't put into words.

All that came out was this:

'Hon?' I said. 'All you need to do is write.'

Just write.