It did occur to me at the beginning of the month, it then being six months since the beginning of this blog, that I could respectably sign out (excuse the pun) having proved to myself that I could do this for a whole half year. Not that I set out in order to prove anything. I just fancied the idea of having a go. I don’t know that I had any particular brief. I knew I would be talking about M.E. and creative process because those are, one way or another, at the centre of my life, but that’s all I knew.
Other than one poet who had a blog, I knew no-one who did, and I still don’t, outside of the other bloggers I have got to know since doing this. A couple of non-blogging people have said how “brave” I must be and how they couldn’t imagine doing it themselves. Mostly people have been baffled. Why would anyone do this and wasn’t it mainly for teenagers or perverts? More recently, blogging seems to have become mainstream and it is more generally thought that everyone is doing it. But still, I have a sense that it is considered a bit (though no-one would actually say this) weird, sad even. “I have too many interesting things to do with my life,” is what one person said to me, as though I had extended an invitation.
Well writing things down as a regular practice or habit is perhaps a weird thing to do altogether. Anyone who becomes immersed in writing a novel knows this: you spend hours every day for months, years at a time, deeply involved with people who don’t exist. As a blogger you become involved with people who exist as disembodied beings, you may not even know what they look like if they don’t choose to put up an image of themselves. They touch you in ways you wouldn’t have imagined.
And sometimes it happens that you get a message out of the blue from someone who is not a blogger, who has been reading your blog for several months and for whom your words have been, in some way, meaningful. And this is the kind of lovely gesture that can make you decide to keep doing this weird thing a bit longer.