I know it doesn't seem like it, given the relative paucity of posts on this blog, but I am slowly getting back into it. True, a few posts lie written but unpublished, and I often wonder whether I will ever blog with the fervour that I used to.
I have often thought about writing, as with running, cycling, climbing, photography, etc, that these things come and go, ebb and flow. I have long come to the conclusion that I am, at heart, sporadic.
One of the things I have started doing is journalling, using the Day One app to just, well, journal. To write and record snippets and thoughts. I started after listening to Documentally boo-ing about his own experience of using the app, and I think he is right - it is tremendously rewarding to blog for an audience of one.
Back in the day my posts were much more personal, more about me, what I believed, thought and felt. As people began to know me, as I became less open and less liable to blog in such a way. Now that many people who know me, either in real life or on twitter, and know of my blog it becomes even harder to do so.
I am, I guess, more guarded with those who know me.
There are two ways to approach this problem. The first is to blog secretly, a single screen amongst a vast ocean of screens, no longer connected to this blog or the person who is me.
The other is to blog for me, only for me, hidden away by my absence.
Perhaps I shall do both. Blog in a secret place, and blog in a secret place.
It isn't that I don't trust you. I trust many of you much further than I could throw you. It is just that the more I blog, the more open I am, the further away from the real me you become. Like a character in a book, the details that make the me are wrought from what I write and what you imagine. The dance between the two of us is what creates that image. I cannot define your thoughts, only influence them, and in that translation, in that imperfect empathy I am no longer really me.
The act of writing defines. The act of reading defines. As I become more aware of the latter the former changes, morphs, becomes more careful, more considered. You have defined me with your reading, in ways I cannot comprehend. I have made me cautious.
Perhaps it doesn't matter. Perhaps what matters is that words do not wither, that stories remain full of potential and poems will always move. Perhaps what matters is not the audience and not the writer and not what is written. Perhaps what matters is the effort, that something, somewhere, is being written, word after word, sentence after sentence, story after story.
Perhaps what matters, to me, is that somewhere, somewhen, somehow, I am writing, and that it isn't necessarily for either of us.