Someone asked me the other day why I write so much on this blog. As usual when faced with a question like that, I was a bit at a loss how to answer straight away. Popular advice for would-be writers is to write every day, to exercise the ‘writing muscle’. And that is what I do, by writing 500 words every morning. But that begs a couple of questions. After all, aren’t there more constructive and useful things I could be writing? My novel, for instance, or my other ideas – why focus so much on myself, my feelings and my life? Well, the answer to that is easy – because it IS easy – writing this kind of drivel takes very little effort. Rarely am I at a loss for words, they tumble out of me and demand to be set down.
The other question, is, why on a blog? Why not just in a journal, as I have done for so many years? The answer to that is quite complex, and it’s taken a couple of days for it to percolate through my brain and emerge blinking into the daylight (oh, how I love those mixed metaphors). It’s partly to do with emphasising the discipline aspect, I think. If I am writing for a potential audience, then there is external confirmation (or could be) that I am actually doing what I committed to do – otherwise, who would know whether I’m writing every day or not, apart from myself? Second, I do occasionally get feedback. And that sends me off onto new trains of thought. Which is mostly worthwhile. I was going to say ‘always worthwhile’ – well, maybe it is.
So, I have become my own most fruitful subject. And that’s OK, because it helps me to clarify my relationship with myself, which has been a problem for me for as long as I can remember thinking about anything. It does help to fight against the loneliness and sense of futility that I often feel. And that’s probably enough to justify it. It’s a form of meditation, a routine, a ritual to start the day, and sometimes I find I produce something I’m really quite proud of (not often, I’ll admit). But when I read it back later, I’m usually pleasantly surprised.
But having said all that, I won’t be around for the next few days. The long anticipated trip to Paris starts today – though most of the morning will be taken up with sitting in railway stations. My daughter will be here at 8 to take me to Bedford station – we’ll get there about 8:30 so she can get to college on time, although with my cheap ticket I can’t get the train before 9:10. Then I’ll be at St Pancras just after 10, although the Eurostar doesn’t leave till 12. So, two hours to kill. A champagne breakfast, perhaps? I thought about going over to the British Library, but I’ll have my suitcase – though there must be a left luggage office somewhere. Maybe I’ll just sit in Le Pain Quotidien and enjoy breakfast, to get me into the continental mood.
And then, home on Sunday evening, and by Monday morning, I’ll be back here again.