Blog-weariness and Big Pants by Fran Brady
I don't know about anyone else but I am immensely daunted by seeing that some other AE bloggers have already written and scheduled their posts for months ahead. There's even one for next Christmas, for heaven's sake! And I thought I was an organised, forward-planning sort of person. I stand in awe. I have no idea what I will be wanting to write about in 10 months time. Actually, I have no idea what I want to write about right now.
It sure creeps up on you (well, on me, anyway), this monthly commitment. When I finish one post, I promise myself that next month I will start thinking about it at least a fortnight before. I will mull and brew and simmer until a rich stew of witticisms, epigrams and aphorisms emerges, well ahead of the dreaded 2nd of the month. Each month, I turn the page in my diary/daily-tasks jotter and see 'AE BLOG' staring balefully at me on the 1st.
'Why not put it in your diary earlier, say on the 24th of the preceding month?' I hear you cry. Tried that. Saw it, noted it, felt comfortable that I had a week in hand - and promptly forgot about it. I am gradually coming to the conclusion that I am not one of the world's natural bloggers. My own website has a blog page but I have just checked and realised with shame that my last post was on Hogmanay (that's 31st December to the sassenachs among you). In my defence it was at least 31st of Dec 2105. It might so easily have been 2014.
It's not that I am not writing: I never stop! Apart from having just sent the final version of my fourth novel off to the publisher: I am in two writing groups; edit a quarterly writers' magazine; do a monthly column in our church magazine; had several poems published in anthologies last year; have begun a series of children's stories for my goddaughter which I am serialising on my website as well; and am gearing up for an intensive writing week (while my beloved is golfing with the lads in Spain), during which I shall attempt to lick about fifty interviews into a book of reflections and memories to mark the end of an annual festival that has been running for about 20 years. Got a gleam in my eye for my fifth novel too. . .
I crave your indulgence; do not judge my blog-reluctance too severely. Rather, bend your razor-sharp, analytical minds to a diagnosis and cure. It is not that I don't think blogging is a worthwhile pursuit. (Would I dare say that here anyway, even if I thought it?) I just can't seem to get very excited about it. In fact, I can't even get even slightly excited, if I'm honest. Do I feel it's not REAL writing and therefore just time-wasting? Is it a throwback to my dour, Presbyterian upbringing with it's tight-bottomed work ethic? No, that can't be right - I was brought up RC.
Over to you fellow-writers and forward-bloggers: prescribe me a cure. Capsules and tablets as big as you like. I have no hang-ups about swallowing drugs (legal, preferably). Who will rid me of this troublesome blog deficiency?
In the absence of a decent blog, here's a funny picture of our washing line that my husband took recently. He entitled it 'Big Pantie Woman'.
Oh yes! I may not be much of a blogger, but I sure have a big bottom!
(can you guess what it really is?)
It sure creeps up on you (well, on me, anyway), this monthly commitment. When I finish one post, I promise myself that next month I will start thinking about it at least a fortnight before. I will mull and brew and simmer until a rich stew of witticisms, epigrams and aphorisms emerges, well ahead of the dreaded 2nd of the month. Each month, I turn the page in my diary/daily-tasks jotter and see 'AE BLOG' staring balefully at me on the 1st.
'Why not put it in your diary earlier, say on the 24th of the preceding month?' I hear you cry. Tried that. Saw it, noted it, felt comfortable that I had a week in hand - and promptly forgot about it. I am gradually coming to the conclusion that I am not one of the world's natural bloggers. My own website has a blog page but I have just checked and realised with shame that my last post was on Hogmanay (that's 31st December to the sassenachs among you). In my defence it was at least 31st of Dec 2105. It might so easily have been 2014.
It's not that I am not writing: I never stop! Apart from having just sent the final version of my fourth novel off to the publisher: I am in two writing groups; edit a quarterly writers' magazine; do a monthly column in our church magazine; had several poems published in anthologies last year; have begun a series of children's stories for my goddaughter which I am serialising on my website as well; and am gearing up for an intensive writing week (while my beloved is golfing with the lads in Spain), during which I shall attempt to lick about fifty interviews into a book of reflections and memories to mark the end of an annual festival that has been running for about 20 years. Got a gleam in my eye for my fifth novel too. . .
I crave your indulgence; do not judge my blog-reluctance too severely. Rather, bend your razor-sharp, analytical minds to a diagnosis and cure. It is not that I don't think blogging is a worthwhile pursuit. (Would I dare say that here anyway, even if I thought it?) I just can't seem to get very excited about it. In fact, I can't even get even slightly excited, if I'm honest. Do I feel it's not REAL writing and therefore just time-wasting? Is it a throwback to my dour, Presbyterian upbringing with it's tight-bottomed work ethic? No, that can't be right - I was brought up RC.
Over to you fellow-writers and forward-bloggers: prescribe me a cure. Capsules and tablets as big as you like. I have no hang-ups about swallowing drugs (legal, preferably). Who will rid me of this troublesome blog deficiency?In the absence of a decent blog, here's a funny picture of our washing line that my husband took recently. He entitled it 'Big Pantie Woman'.
Oh yes! I may not be much of a blogger, but I sure have a big bottom!
(can you guess what it really is?)
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