My goal was to write a blog per week. And since January I’ve stuck to it, not that anyone cares. I mean I’m sure they would if they knew about it, but it’s not exactly Field of Dreams. And it’s not like I didn’t have enough ambitions already, like endeavoring to not always be the last person in the pub.
I was late to the blogging party (which sounds like a party with the most pressure for something interesting to happen at like ever), but everyone seems to be doing it. The woman who had a car lifted off her in the City the other day was lucky she hadn’t been run over in Shoreditch. Everyone would have been blogging about how no one was helping.
I guess it’s like when everyone was Buddhist for a while, because it hadn’t started any wars, looked mellow, and had no rituals other than sitting still. It took zero-effort, which met both Buddhism’s ethos and the modern need for instant gratification so neatly that it was almost uncanny. Mind you, most people had only heard of it thanks to Brad Pitt’s Seven Years in Tibet, which, to quote from my novel (because no one else is), felt like saying you understand bolshevism on the basis of having heard Boney M’s Rasputin.
My blog arose as a result of banning myself from writing another novel while I enrolled on a psychotherapy course. In other words, not writing lasted for about 1 day. It was a choice between scribbling a blog, or anonymous erotica. However, porn written by a female sounds sassy, sanctioned and sexy, but by a bloke comes across with the charm of a drunken uncle that no one knows at the family wedding.
I say everyone is blogging, I mainly mean people who are so terrified of not existing, that we need to make a permanent mark on history with advice on how best to pack hand luggage, exactly what to say to a policeman catching you urinating on your neighbour’s car, or which restaurants to avoid in Valencia. Blogging is basically shouting at the world about how much you like Madonna’s last album, while said world walks past. It’s like Speakers Corner but with less excuse for sounding like a lunatic, and better opportunity to use a flattering avatar.
With each post there’s a brief sense of achievement, on par with actually remembering to buy shoe polish for example, before realising you have to write another one. It’s about staying at home, while the world’s commuters are dragged to work by their self-propelled coffee cups, and the closest I’m getting to any action is crumpets for breakfast. To be frank, as Sinatra once said, there’s sometimes not a lot to write about. At times I feel about as cutting edge as Elaine Page’s Sunday radio 2 show, and no one wants to know that, not even Elaine’s phone-in; believe me I’ve tried.
I’m looking forward to the end of the year. If I spent as much time checking viewing stats, as writing, I’d have completed the novel I was resisting to start. There’s nothing like not blogging for something interesting to happen. Like a field, perhaps it will be good to be put to fallow, As someone once said (that is proving un google-able), I’ll get better at living than writing.
Blogging is a life skill on par with the ability to walk while texting, and I’m certain that any prospective employer will be impressed by my commitment to publicly waste time at least once a week, at least until the meds wear off.