Once daily, thrice weekly

Newspaper columnists always fascinated me. In the dim and distant days of the 1970s there was one columnist per Sunday broadsheet – about four all told – and by and large the essays they wrote were interesting and some of them even bore re-publication. Then in the 1980s onwards, print media exploded and every paper had three or four columnists – the political one, the motherhood-is-wonderful-no-no-really-it-is one, the single-female one, and the barking mad one. And now, of course, with 2.0 we are all columnists because the attraction of writing a column, surely, must be the sound of one’s own voice.

I’ll make no bones that what I am doing here is trying my arm at think-pieces to see at what point I run out of subjects which interest me about which I have some degree of coherent thinking. I don’t aspire to daily originality. Daily coherence is hard enough.

Daily blogging has changed how I think about what I think. My attention is no longer drawn to a subject on the radio or in my reading or in daily events so that I can while away time musing aimlessly on it. Now I muse with attention and purpose. Which is in itself quite interesting from this side of my cranial cavity.

However, daily blogging is time consuming, and I am about to enter 10 week period when I must focus on more Serious Real Life efforts. I feel a mixture of relief and guilt at cutting my blogging back to three times a week. I feel like I am sneaking myself off the hook and masking it with falsely superior motives. But I could displace for my country, and blogging is the most entertaining displacement activity I currently have available. It beats doing the ironing hands down. But, since blogging will neither buy the baby a new bonnett nor get the days work done, I have to blog less.

Besides which, if I reduce the quantity, maybe I can improve the quality.

2 responses to “Once daily, thrice weekly

  1. Now how could you possibly improve the quality without reducing me to a jealous raging froth of inferiority… ; )

    I find blogging surprisingly hard. I never realised I’d find it so hard. I am reluctant to simply litter the blog with ‘holding posts’, or mere chatter and whining. Ummm. Being a little perfectionist, I want every post to be at least two out of: funny, witty (not quite the same as funny, that), clever, erudite, passionate, ‘on-topic’ (ie writing) and/or interesting. And I feel self-conscious as heck about the possibility of boring people. Many bloggers adopt an attitude of ‘this is me, take it or leave it.’ I envy their insouciance, but what, really, is the point of a public domain blog if you aren’t in the least interested in whether people find you interesting? Feedback. That’s why I do it. Is my writing actually interesting? Are others out there on my wavelength? Am I funny? Am I alone?

    Am I getting sentimental now?

    But anyway, blogging daily surely can’t really be the point of blogging? I’d love to post every day but I do have to feel I am writing something worthwhile. I don’t really know if I can do that (too self-conscious?), but I’d like to feel it wasn’t necessary.

    I’ll still be dropping round on a regular basis.

  2. But you already reduce me to a jealous raging froth of inferiority! Your way with a simile can leave me gasping for breath you know. Me, I’m just what is memorably described as “un pissoir de copie”. Or somesuch. Pardon my French.

    I guess it all depends on why one blogs. I write in order to get my thoughts lined up in a row. I analyse things for fun. I can’t help it. It annoys people and becomes embarrassing in romantic and social situations. This is an act of self-indulgence, and only the fact that there’s an audience saves it from being an act of self-abuse.

    I do feel for your need for perfection. To be honest as well as being extraordinary your family seems to be the giddy limit at times.

    I wish I had advice, but if I did it would only serve to make *me* feel better, and would not actually be of any practical use to you.

    Please do keep on dropping round.



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