It’s a new year and time to brush away the cobwebs…
take down the tree (distraction activity one)
show you my oh-so-funny Proust Christmas card. He’d have split his sides at this… (distraction activity two)
re-assess why I’m writing a blog. Do I really quite like the cobweb look? Goes with my home after all.
As you might have guessed I’ve let it slip for a while.
Easily distracted, I lost focus which led to a phase of existential angst. I mean, why was I writing a blog in the first place? To give some meaning to my formless little life? Failed on that score. To keep a record of places I’ve been? Couldn’t keep up. A file to keep the notes for the Proust reading group? Now that would have been so useful today at the first Proust reading group meeting of the year. And what about the sewing? What about that? As for the cooking and the eating?
As my formless little life became more formless so I had to let it go. It was all getting out of control.
Too busy (cooking and eating most of the time), I let it drift off, sad and lonely, bobbing about, anchorless, until it got swept out to the very edge of the big world wide web (because, as we all know, it’s a flat world, like any other), only to fall over the side and float about in a big, getting bigger all the time, cloud, full of useful things, as well as cobwebs and other stuff that nobody knows exist.
And I was happy with that. For a while. But then 2 things happened. Plus one discovery.
The first was that I wrote a novel. Surely I should have written about that? But I felt too self-conscious to confess to this. Then I wanted to look back at my notes on Proust on Mme de Villeparisis (who? Quite. That’s why I wished I’d uploaded them here). But I’d been too lazy to add them.
As for the discovery. Oh how sad for me! I’d curbed my worst writing excesses, sparing my nearest and dearest from reading about their foibles and idiosyncrasies of which they have many (instead forcing myself to go to cafes and restaurants to have something useful to post here). I hadn’t wanted to upset the poor, sweet loves. In fact, subconsciously, and on every other level, I’d wanted to please them. However, when I realised that not one of them (and I have an unbelievably large family) could be arsed (yes, arsed. Swearing can be such a comfort in times of family betrayal) to even remember that I had a blog, never mind remember what it was called, I decided that I would start again. Evidently there was going to be no chance that they were ever going to read it so I decided to give it another go. And vent my inner bad fairy who’s not been invited to the all-the-fairies-in-the-kingdom party.
Wonder if I’m adopted?
Now, in an ideal world I should have two blogs, one for Proust and one for my novel (and three if you count the rest of the hotch-potch of posts and pages) all far, far away from one another BUT in the real world, my real world, life is just a mish-mash to which I struggle to give some intelligible order. So, why try? Why pretend by imposing a perfect structure on a gloriously imperfect, haphazard set of disparate experiences? Why indeed. Let the writing chaos begin.
Happy New Year and I wish you every joy and success in your own gloriously imperfect lives and endeavours.