I didn't really know what I was getting myself into when I agreed to start writing here. I understood the concept of writing an on-going confessional about my love life. I tend to gush embarrassing truths about myself and wasn't worried about doing that in a public space. Trying to be honest about romance is definitely a squeamish endeavor. I've kind of felt like I was jumping blindly off a cliff with almost everything I've written here so far. That last second before hitting the "publish" button gives me a woozy vertigo every time, but I'm okay with it. As scary as it can be, it's equally thrilling to see myself through other people's eyes, to put my thoughts and experiences in a larger context of other people's thoughts and experiences. Writing about other people, though, and frequently without their consent or foreknowledge, is an even more compromising endeavor.
I was out a few nights ago with a woman who had discovered Date Machine before we had ever met in person. We were having a nice enough first date making small talk for an hour or so. Then she suddenly asked, "You're not going to write about this, are you?" (Hey M, this one's for you!) The thought hadn't crossed my mind during our time together, but I started to think about it after she brought it up. I had no idea. I told her I didn't think I would. We'd had some nice conversation, had a couple of drinks, she'd lost her shoe in a sidewalk grate on the walk to the bar, she had used the word "normative" in a sentence. Things were going well enough for a first date. Would describing the parameters of "well enough" really make for an interesting read (or an interesting write)?
My first post here was full of snark and derision (though most of that was aimed at myself), but I was paranoid that the woman I had written about would see it and have her feelings hurt. A few weeks later I wrote about a different woman and did hurt her feelings when she discovered the post after the fact. If there's a common thread beneath both those experiences, it seems like I wasn't as forthright as I could have been in either situation. In the first case, I wound up trapped for longer than I wanted on a boring date with someone I had no interest in. In the second case, I wound up slightly bruising an ego, even though I was much more interested in the latter than the former.
What are the ethics of writing about one's experience with other people in a public format? I have only one basic guideline so far, which is to limit my descriptions to my own experiences and perceptions. I know in advance that I'm a hypocrite and a petty bitch. When I sense those qualities buzzing somewhere beneath the surface, my imagination sticks and I wind up staring at myself in the figurative mirror for a few hundred words until I can match the form and the feeling. I reference other people in my writing, but it's never about them. My point of view is the vague, egotistical center at the heart of it all.
Which is why I always conclude that ethics are entirely irrelevant to my purposes here. The more empathetic I am in framing my time with other people in an inoffensive way, the less honest I become. What good is a confessional without honesty? What good is a confessional without some incrimination to atone for in the first place?
Previous Posts:
Love Machine: Let's Just Be Friends
Love Machine: Must Be Willing to Lie About Where We Met
Sex Machine: Why Women Are Great In Bed
Sex Machine: Why Women Suck in Bed
Date Night: All By Myself on a Saturday Night
Sex Machine: Spank My Ass
Love Machine: Infidelity or How Long Can You Go Without Cheating?
Date Night: The 45-Minute Walkout
Date Night Redux: H's Version of Our Night Out
Celebrity Confession: Who is Lauren Cohan and Why is She Hitting on Me?
Sex Machine: My First Muff Dive
Crying in Public: Remember the Cheerleaders
Sex Machine: Masturbating Upside Down
Date Night: Two Women in One Night
Hooksexup Confessions: Rate My Penis Size
Crying In Public: The Sichuan Night Train
Love machine: How I Date On The Internet
Sex Machine: Rate My Blowjobs
Crying in Public: My Cubicle