I don’t know what it is about writing.
By writing, I mean with a pen and paper. Maybe it’s a sign of the times, which is a shame. When I was younger I had heaps of diaries, from the Tweety Bird padlock one with the password ‘belly file-up’ (chosen by my brother), to the ringer binder with the dog on the front, which I thrust at my mother and told her to read the page about my crush on Daniel Radcliffe (first EVER ‘real’ crush) after which I ran to hide under my bed. From first crushes to the crushing cruelness of kids at school and the thick black notebook I wrote it all down in.
I was a regular writer. I loved starting off in my best handwriting (I was not adverse to ripping a page out and starting again if it wasn’t good enough) and writing the day’s thoughts. Now I don’t. My friend Francesca bought me a beautiful notebook for my birthday; one I definitely would have picked myself. I had hardly written in it. I can’t – I don’t know what to write, or even how to anymore. Where has the diarist gone?
But wait, look. Keep looking. You’re reading words. At a computer screen the words can flow from my fingertips easily. I’m barely thinking right now. But putting pen to paper now, is a challenge. Is this blog post, in some way, a diary entry? It flows the same, the only thing missing is the paper and ink. However, diaries are rarely read by anyone other than the reader. Some traditionalists would say this post ABSOLUTELY NOT a form of diary entry. It’s free to be seen across the world, by anyone, at any time.
Rather than blogging tonight, I tried to put pen to paper and ‘really’ write instead. I stopped fairly quickly, feeling that there was no real ‘point’ to it. Which I think, is an absolute shame.
What do you think?