The pen is mightier than the sword, huh? Not so much. Truth is, the written word has all the power of a wet dog—which, to be fair, could still be pretty gnarly were it rabid.

“The pen is mightier than the sword” is one of those exhausted turns of phrase that we use to keep discouraged optimists from jumping off of high-rises. Other examples include “Good things come to those who wait,” “We’re all special,” and “There’s someone out there for everyone.” (They don’t, we’re not, and there isn’t.) The pen, the wet dog, is just a tool for producing words. And as watching FOX News will evidence, most words are just fluff.  However, like the wet dog—rabid or not—the pen still has the capacity to bite.

No, that’s a fib: The pen itself can’t bite, but the words it produces can. Writing signifies the spoken word, which signifies objects, concepts, feelings, etc. Writing something harsh is the equivalent of “running one’s mouth.” Tempers are raised; feelings are wounded. But unlike speech, the written word lingers. Words stick around after you’re done writing them. Suffering the consequences of running one’s mouth, then, is like being bitten by a Pomeranian. It stings, but the bite is brief. Alas, the written word is more akin to the chomp of a psychotic Chihuahua. Once the teeth are in, those little hellspawn don’t let go.

Moreover, the power of the written word has more to do with the writer than with the written. The Rottweiler is more formidable than the miniature poodle. The writings of a respected journalist or political pundit are more powerful than those of a teenage girl blogging about her “hurtz feelinz 4 boyz omg.” This isn’t to say that ‘lil poodle “speech” bites or teenagers’ blogs can’t have serious repercussions—I’m sure both have resulted in many a severe infection. Regardless, the world’s “Rottweilers” notwithstanding, the only person to feel the wrath of words is usually their writer.

Let’s cast the dog analogy to the doghouse.  The power of words is overblown to make us all feel like we have a voice. Well, we do—but that doesn’t mean anyone is listening. Words are mongrels you once made the mistake of feeding; they follow you. And sometimes, dogs even bite the hand that feeds.

What I’m trying to say is, I wish I had a bigger mouth. As it is, I do all of my venting, whining, chastising, and postulating with my writin’ hand. More than once, my inclination to silently express myself has come back to haunt me.

What’s that—you want examples? Okay: I once blogged about the experience of sleeping in my college girlfriend’s bed one night when her roommate came back with a visitor and—well, yeah, that—on the bunk above us. I didn’t think anyone read my blog. Her roommate did, and I caught some heat for complicating my girlfriend’s living arrangements. Two years later, I nearly lost my best friend over an angry blog post. Don’t even get me started on breakup letters and drunken emails! What we write can always come back to haunt us as texts, the vengeful spirits of our thoughts and feelings. For this reason, we must remain mindful of the pen’s true power—the power to spill hot, acidic ink all over the writer’s groin.

Dogs bite. Cars break down, careers end, and babies poop. Responsibility and disaster are kissing cousins. Where some might recommend that you not divulge your personal information on blogs, or bear your soul in emails or confessional poems or Facebook notes, this tatterdemalion supports this risky business; the more personal and damning the better, as far as I’m concerned. Humility is grace.

Good thing I never accumulated any of that self-esteem stuff, else I might have more darling an ego to protect. Were I burdened with self-respect, I might feel differently. I might then mind the hundreds upon hundreds of personal narratives and confessions I’ve promulgated here, there, and most everywhere they’ll put up with my ink stains. I’m not about to preach what I don’t practice—not today, anyhaps (maybe tomorrow, depending on the weather).

So, I’m not going to tell you that you can’t have dogs; you can take that up with your landlord. Just call a spade a spade, and writing a loaded gun. Writing is dangerous. But the same is true of any form of self-expression that survives past its inception. Art is that ornery old indoor dog you’re stuck with ‘til he croaks. He might bite you when you touch him, and maybe he barks at shadows, but you’re stuck with him until he’s cold.

But, then, do you really ever want him to be?

Charles Smith has a taste for being bitten, but don’t get him started about the dude from Twilight.