Writing is an interesting exercise for me not in the least because of the requirement for restraint. One must not offend, after all. Or be gross. Or be too provocative. Or rude. Blah, blah, blah. In fact, when you add up all the ‘do-nots’, one is/I am, effectively, muzzled. Censored. Tethered. Restrained.

I could blame Sally. She is much more decorous than I am and generally less expressive in all matters except nice ones. It is just the way she is. And she does act as an inhibiting factor because of that. You know, like the Queen.

More to the point, however, is that she actually passes judgment on everything I write before it is published and, even tho I insist on ‘saying what I want’, I really don’t want to say anything that upsets her. So she is an effective editor/censor without ever really needing veto powers. An arched eyebrow is like the delete button for me.

Restraint is just marital harmony by yet another name.

It is not so much that I have gross things to say nor am I looking to offend (with a few notable exceptions). It is, rather, the sight of the fence at the end of the field that keeps the horse from getting up a good head of steam. And so it is that my steam is kept in check and I don’t even move my haunches in that direction.

If I was allowed (by my ownself, I know) my freedom-to-spew, I would most definitely paint a few of my neighbours in more vivid hues or some in severe basic blacks and whites. That is in my nature. I am inclined to word-pictures as my Friend Doug says. And painting characters is the most fun.

I would most certainly ream the government over myriad issues and may have to be physically restrained after awhile lest I get arrested. Just thinking about it gets my blood riled (you following the fish-farm/DFO/issues!?). So, in that sense, my restraint is also for my own good.

I would also talk about relationships more. Family. Friends. Neighbours. I like the subject but I understand that it would be a violation of intimacies and so it is taboo. Not everyone wants to read about themselves and especially not in association with me. Hell, I might even write about intimacies but that, too, could cause trouble in paradise.

Most of the good stuff is out of bounds!

I might even write about my own inner demons but, to be frank, they are all pretty lame now. Geriatric demons, if you will. No real spunk. Not any more. M’demons got no mo’ mojo.

And I guess that is the nub of it, eh? No real demons to push me to the brink of offense, rejection or social isolation. Not like the good ol’ days. Now I rely on boring people as my primary offense.

How’m I doin’?