September 18th? Is that when I last wrote? That can’t be true. I’ve certainly thought about writing my blog most days between 18 September and now, but, well I’ve been busy. I’ve written half a book, umpteen articles, campaigns and bids, research documents and speeches since September 18th but blogging? Such a treat, such an act of unadulterated hedonism. The idea of writing for… what? I can barely write the word.. pleasure? It’s just so 1997.
It’s not that I’m unaware of the potential of the blog; I ghost blog, I’ve told my students to write a blog, damn it – I even gave a friend a copy of the Artist’s Way for her birthday which, with its opening exercise of writing every day, I’m convinced began the blog culture in the first place.
I’ve done deals with friends who have begun to blog that I would blog them and they would blog me. I’ve told them about feeling like being Bloggy-no-mates when no-one comments, and of being secretly watched as the number of anonymous visits inches up, but can I spare the time to go blog visiting? It’s a spooky, lonely world in here.