I’ve never written a blog before but here I am now, slightly awed by the white space waiting for me to fill it. Thinking in public: what a strange thing to do. But then that is what writers do, and here I can be a writer. I’ve written all sorts of things over the years but never quite taken them seriously, and there have been long gaps when I’ve done other things and tried to pretend writing didn’t really matter. Or else told myself I was so bad at it that it wasn’t worth the effort. Now, at my considerable age, thanks to the wonderful MA at Bath Spa and my brilliant writing friends, the writer is finally getting the courage to come out. It’s as though the weather-house figure who is normally out has gone back in for a while and enabled the other one to emerge. From now on, of course, they will have to take turns. Life isn’t only writing, and writing has to be about life. But that doesn’t mean the writer should have to scurry away like someone who has no right to exist.
So far this is only a little blog – a bloglet, I suppose – and I don’t know yet how it will grow. That’s the fun of it: there’s nobody to tell me what it’s supposed to look like. I can just write it if I’m feeling bloggish, or not if not. I hope we’ll get on well together, my blog and I.
I keep thinking of that poem by Stevie Smith about a poet who doesn’t write. It’s called Here Lies…. and can be found at http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse/105/2#20589956