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I confess, Email scares me.

Its true, Email seems so innocuous, yet underneath its calm demeanor is the lurking beast of self-doubt. There are a great many things I wish to communicate, to help along discussions or add what I consider are valid points, yet somehow, I always end up sitting and staring at two or three paragraphs, rearranging sentences, statements and flow.

I have this fear of appearing to be addle brained. I usually operate under the egotistical impression that I am fairly intelligent, that I have some very unique ideas and that what I have to say is important enough to be heard. I want to share what's in my head, rattling around, but it seems that when I come to the critical juncture of making what's in my mind heard, I freeze up. I fear that others will not see the golden ideas I want to present due to them being hidden in the flotsam and jetsam of my discombobulated prose.

My childhood was spent bouncing in and out of Special Education classes. During my interment in Elementary School, I encountered many teachers that simply did not want to deal with me. I believe that a significant amount of this anguish and complication was from the fact that I am dyslexic, and spent the first 18 years of life without myself, nor any other person, being aware of that. Sure, there were teachers who really liked me from time to time, and they suggested that I get tested for a learning disability, but for some reason, tests never occurred.

So here I am now, Verklempt over trying to expose my thoughts on writing email here in this blog. I know the trick though, and I am ready to use it finally. Do you want to know what it is? Find your friends, the ones you trust, and write for them. When major faux paux's are committed, have faith that your friends will help you out when they can. That is not the whole trick though, and not even the most vital part:Keep writing, as much as possible, and be proud that you are making the effort to be better. That is how I am getting through this.

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It is good that almost everyone can now have the fine arts at his fingertips, by just turning a knob on his set, or by just stepping into his drugstore. In this diffusion, however, they become cogs in a culture-machine which remakes their content.
Herbert Marcuse in One-Dimensional Man

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