Have you read this?

I doubt you have, since most of you probably a) don’t live in NYC; b) don’t read the Times Magazine; and c) aren’t especially compelled to read a magazine article about blog drama.

(What IS a blog, anyway? Damn kids and their new words!)

Anyway, I read it. And this. And this. Oh, and can we forget this?

And as a result, I’m struck somewhere between shock at the idea of ANYONE being bested in a battle of the wits with Jimmy Kimmel (on Larry King Live, no less!) and rolling my eyes at YET ANOTHER blogger on the Internet bemoaning the consequences of oversharing.

Because she’s not really bemoaning. She’s writing for the Times Magazine and making some good coin to do it.

Because her “suffering” has less to do with the Big Bad Internets and more to do with that girl in every high school who argues loudly with her boyfriend in front of his locker every time the hallways are crowded. Her life isn’t necessarily tougher than yours. She’s just more noisy about it.

And she’s the only one startled when the boy walks away.

I’ve been blogging under my own name for more than four years, which puts me in the “newbie” category for some, and the “old hat” category for others. I’ve spent that time as a “personal” blogger, which is the random category you end up in when you or your subject matter don’t fit any other popular designation. Or you’re, you know, personal.

I write about whatever I want to write about, and I don’t write about whatever I don’t want to write about. It’s up to me, 100%. Which is why I have no one to blame but myself if things go sideways: I’m completely accountable for every single word that appears here.

If I let myself get tempted (or even goaded) into sharing something too personal, it’s me that gets to cringe until the entry falls off my front page. If my reticence to share certain things bores people, then it’s me that has to live with being “dull.” If I write something crappy, well, add “crappy” to my resume.

Even if I’m writing for someone else, somewhere else… hell, it’s still up to me. I can choose to walk away from a stupid assignment, even if my bank account takes a hit for the sake of my ethics.

I do like to share about who I am, what I love, and what I don’t love. I do like to walk through the things I’m learning, and to learn from the people that stop by here. I do have the essential authorly desire to be read. I do like feedback. I do like conversation. I put my stuff out publicly because that’s what works for me.

And I am grateful for the way my writing career has launched itself from this space.

But the flip side is, I’m culpable the second I hit “publish”. If any shit is going to hit any fan, it’s going to fly in my direction.

That’s why I think before I write.

That’s why I avoid posting on the “controversy trifecta”: sex, politics and religion.

That’s why I don’t malign my family, my co-workers, my past or current mates, or my friends on my blog.

That’s why I check every harsh word I’m tempted to use against the real value of posting it. Will I feel better? Will the problem be solved? Will it end there? Am I going to wish I hadn’t done it in a year? An hour?

And that’s where Ms. Gould comes in: no matter how startled or wounded people pretend to be at the outcome of their actions, most people who write for very long on the Internet are WELL aware of what will happen when they post certain things.

If you yammer on LiveJournal about how much you hate your boyfriend’s best friend, someone will eventually send him the link. If you mock your coworkers without hesitation all over your Blogger, someone in your IT department is going to object to being called an “indoor kid” and make sure your supervisor gets the URL. If you post pictures of your boobs on your Facebook, people are going to look at your boobs (and either like them enough to share them, or mock them enough to, well… share them.)

If you post anything drunkenly anywhere, well… all bets are off, then.

Even if you think no one knows you’re doing it. Even if you lock up your privacy settings like a drum.

But if that’s what you like, and that’s what you want, more power to you. If you’re ready to man (or woman) up for the reaction, enjoy. I don’t have problems with anyone doing anything online if they can live with the results.

However.

The conceit of feeling exposed? The conceit of feeling victimized? The conceit of being held hostage by your own lethal cocktail of narcissism and naivete? The conceit of curling up in a fetal position when the world closes in on you?

(What, nobody lies prostrate anymore? Pansies.)

NO.

The last call is ALWAYS YOURS.

If you can’t or won’t defend it/stand behind it/sue it into oblivion, you’re going to end up paying for it. And the only person you’ll have to blame is YOU.

If someone else writes about you, well… you’ve got some room there to be offended and hand-talky. Unless, of course, you started something with them, or they’re just reposting something you put elsewhere. Because… yep, you got it… it began with you.

Is youth an excuse? Is fame an excuse? Is peer pressure an excuse? Is innocence an excuse? I’m going to say… naaaaaaaaah. Especially if catharsis was your only concern, or the approbation of dumbasses.

Which is what most people who write crap on the Internet are looking for. Period.

And now, apparently, people who write for the Times Magazine.

There are no victims here except the people in Emily’s life who gave up their privacy on the same laptop-shaped altar on which she sacrificed hers.

All you have is a blogging, bed-lolling, boyfriend-ruining, Kimmel-whacked, overpublished, overhyped hipster heroine for the confessional age… and one literary institution that just made a judgment call akin to getting a tattoo of My Little Pony after too many Jello shooters.

The Web will always need a balance of scholars, clowns, tarts, vicars, villains, Robin Hoods, Marilyns, Dorothys… you name it. There’s a standing welcome for everyone, whether you take the heat in the kitchen, or stay in the dining room with people eating pie and telling stories.

You’re even welcome to feel some regret when you slide in the wrong direction now and then.

But if you cannot own up to your role and your truth and that shot of your ass at Mardi Gras, I see no need to celebrate or indulge or mourn you ANYWHERE.

This is not what all bloggers do. This is not what all writers do. This is not what all young women do. This is not what all people do.

But this is the part of new media that our established media sources jab their fingers at as if to say, “Look! Look! PartyAngel69 is no Dorothy Parker.”

Damn right. No one ever will be.

But most of us aren’t PartyAngel69, either.

Occasionally we think first.

And then we write better.