Why I am not blogging much. (And why I feel the need to explain myself.)
This blog. Sometimes it's a source of total joy and excitement. Sometimes it's a rock hanging from a frayed rope, just above my head, ready to fall at any time and kill me. Sometimes it's a blank room with no view. Nothing to see here. Move along, folks.
'I should blog,' says my brain.
'What about?' I say back to it.
'Whatever you're thinking about,' it replies. A little tartly. (My brain can be quite strict with me. It's like that.)
'You know I can't write about the things I'm thinking about,' I groan.
'Why not?' It clips its mouth shut and raises an eyebrow.
'Well, the political things are only half-formed, plus I don't write politics because no matter what I write someone's going to get mad at me, and you know I can't handle that.' I say. 'I can't write about decluttering because my house is a *mess*, which ironically started to happen again once I decided to stop writing about decluttering. I'm not allowed to write about the parenting awesomeness I've been doing, the reasons for which have totally consumed my life for the last 15 months, because the child I want to write about is old enough to know (a) I have a blog and (b) I might be writing about her and (c) I could be being embarrassing. So any mention of a teenage child is pretty much totally off limits. Everyone's heard about the four year old who talks too much, and anyway, what can I possibly add to the world of parenting bloggers who are all way more amusing and poignant than I am? I'd write about spiritual things but that feels too personal right now, and I'd write about chronic pain stuff but that sounds too wacky, even though its working and I've been pretty much pain free since January.'
I take a deep breath. 'That only leaves three topics: (1) feeding children vegetables, but it hasn't progressed enough beyond yelling 'eat your cucumber' to give any kind of update. (2) My writing. But really. I'm not sure my readers want to be involved in my crashes of insecurity, the daily word counts and the apparent trauma of feeling like being an unsupported indie author. The only other option is (3) my cello and here's how that would go. 'Hey, I'm playing the cello. I really like it. I'm still playing it. I still really like it.'
My brain sighs. A long, painful, drawn-out sigh. 'Haven't you read any books lately? Seen any films? Good grief, woman. Are you living under a rock, that you really have nothing to talk about?'
I look at my feet and squirm. 'Um, not really. I get lots of books out of the library but I don't read all of them. No time. As I said, I'm writing and doing some freelance editing. And, also as I said, that's unbloggable because it's boring.'
'Films? Come on. I know you've watched films. All that slobbing around on the sofa at night. With your knitting needles out.'
'I'm liking the TV series Smash at the moment,' I venture. 'It's a musical about a musical, which always ticks my boxes. The only problem is the heavy-handed, unneeded affair between the writer and the co-star. And yeah, I knitted. But very slowly. Just squares for someone else.' I perk up a little bit. 'Oh, I know. The new series of Survivor is awesome. Blue collar folks vs white collar folks vs 'no collar' free spirits. I LOVE it. I'm secretly going for the white collars to win. Hmm. What does that say about me?'
My brain rolls its virtual eyes. 'Survivor? Again? I mean, I know it's a fun show, but I'm not so sure your readers are going to be staying with you if you go there again.'
'I could just kind of give a general update,' I try. I'm feeling uncertain now. Nothing's obviously going to be quite right, or well-written or profound enough to meet the standards someone clearly set for this blog, once upon a time. 'General updates are okay, as long as there aren't too many of them, right?'
There's a sniff. And a snort. My brain is giving me a look that says okay. I'll let you off this time. Just don't do it again. 'Alright. A general update then. But whatever you do, don't you dare disobey the first rule of blogging and apologise for not having written anything.'