Into the Blogosphere!

Into the Blogosphere!

Here I am, my first foray into the vast blogosphere. Setting sail and taking that maiden voyage into the great unknown. Finding my voice, sending a message, getting the word out there and wondering who oh who will ever know or care? That is the question I know, I know, you must be asking yourselves (or not, as the case may be!) does the world really need another blog? I mean who doesn’t have a blog, is more the question. Christ, my hygienist has a blog. Yes, uh huh, all part of her quest to get the world flossing properly. Ok, so this is not true, but you get my gist. So why do I do it?  Well, here’s the thing, I want to be a writer… at least… I think I do. Yes, yes ofcourse I do. So I’ve just got to do it, or so says it would seem espouses nearly every writer I encounter, happy, successful, smiling smugly back at me from their slick, professional website complete with a whole host of links to Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, LinkedIn, Instagram and every other social media website known to man.

So here I go, shedding whatever self-conscious inhibitions I still harbour and DO IT. I’ve got nothing to lose but my pride, right?

Although, if I’m being honest sometimes I just like the sound of it, you know, saying ‘I’m a writer!’ It sounds so lofty, purposeful, relevant, especially when quizzed by the mummies dropping off little Oscar or Luka to the school gate before teetering off in their vertiginous heels and catching a cab to work. Then there’s me, pushing the Phil&Ted’s, steering with one hand and pulling my four year oId with the other, back stiffening, who’s grown either too tired or bored with the whole affair of expending further energy to propel himself on his Mini scooter. Alas, it’s left to me. In flats. I miss my heels… really… But I digress.

‘Oh, what do I do, well actually I’m in the middle of my first novel.’

‘Oh, that’s amazing! When can I read it? So do you have a publisher? An agent?’

Ooohh, eerrrr, well… not exactly.

And of course they knew this, indulging my quaint little ambition as they were. And I appreciate it, I do. I’ll take feigned interest over indifference any day.

But the truth is, by the time I actually have a moment to write, I sometimes find I would literally… (yes literally because I abhor when people misuse that word) rather lint-brush my neglected wardrobe of suits, Dettol my make-up bag, bleach the grit between my shower tiles with a toothbrush, alphabetise my dusty, redundant CD collection… anything, ANYTHING other than actually sit down and apply myself to the creative process of writing. This goes some way to explaining why the whole affair has taken me so long. Over two years and counting, to be exact. This, and the fact I have two kids, but that’s no excuse, is it? Typically when I find a chunk of space to write I’ve dithered, delayed, and lollygagged for so long that two hours has withered into one. Ah well. There’s always tomorrow.

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