People have been telling me for years to keep a diary. I should've done. I've probably travelled to some 50 odd countries in the last 8 years. But somehow I couldn't be bothered.
The moleskin and Hemingway fountain pen thing just didn't do it for me. Partly because my hand writing is so shockingly bad. A diary should be written in a fountain pen copperplate script shouldn't it? Not some scratchy bad biro. Surely.
And then there was that fear that a diary had to be private, full of sexual revelations and undying passions that you almost hoped/feared that someone would read one day. Because without a secret life of passion, what is it all about? How dare one write a diary if it's boring and about daily trivia. Was I worth a diary?
But this is fun. Is it because I can type it all out? Is it because the nature of a blog is irreverent? And actually I am never going to reveal too much because it's all public. Duh. Obviously. So there's a relief.
Yet - the therapy of banging away at a computer and letting it all flow out feels very good. Perhaps I've been bottling things up for a while and then losing my temper or bursting into a panic of tears. Not good. On any front. I come across as a mad thing.
But this is sane, rational. Of the zeitgeist. That's got to be good hasn't it?
xxx
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