|1.||an official who examines books, plays, news reports, motion pictures, radio and television programs, letters, cablegrams, etc., for the purpose of suppressing parts deemed objectionable on moral, political, military, or other grounds.|
|2.||any person who supervises the manners or morality of others.|
|3.||an adverse critic; faultfinder.|
|4.||(in the ancient Roman republic) either of two officials who kept the register or census of the citizens, awarded public contracts, and supervised manners and morals.|
|5.||(in early Freudian dream theory) the force that represses ideas, impulses, and feelings, and prevents them from entering consciousness in their original, undisguised forms.|
–verb (used with object)
|6.||to examine and act upon as a censor.|
|7.||to delete (a word or passage of text) in one’s capacity as a censor.|
I rarely censor myself on this blog, and for that I am either villified or lauded. What’s odd is the one time that I did censor myself — a poem that I wrote about my fears as a new parent, as being too mentally unstable to be capable to raise a happy child, I deleted after posting it for a few hours out of fear of being misunderstood — I was both villified *and* lauded (in private emails to me).
Either way, I can’t win. I guess that’s an occupational hazard, for anyone who writes and publishes anything, especially if it’s autobiographical.
I really ought to just grow a thick skin and deal. But it’s like getting rejection letters from publishers (which I get tons of): it’s hard not to take it as a criticism of who you are, as opposed to how you said it.
If I think of it as a criticism of how I said it, I try harder next time to do a better job to make myself better understood. If I think of it as a criticism of who I am, well… it’d be chicken-shit for me to delete this blog, but, in my worst moods, it’s been tempting a time or two. Or three. Or…
That’s censorship for you.