You write a blog post every day since the middle of July. It goes fine. But just as you begin to feel the slightest bit exhausted and in need of a break, someone decides it is the month of the year when you have to begin blogging every day again. Just my luck.
I really don’t know what to say. Which is what I did say, actually say, when a friend asked me why I do it at all. There we were, two of us, in a cafe, with tea, actual tea, and he said ‘Why?’ And I didn’t know what to say. So I said what I always say which is that I didn’t want to disappear. I want to be found, I said. And what I didn’t say (but sometimes do say) is I do it because I am super-humanly lazy. Blogging forces me to say something, to stain the silence.
Preferably by pointing the spotlight at someone else. It’s not false modesty (or even modesty), just a small step towards the direction of trying to subvert the culture of me-me-me. I’d much rather talk about Deryn Rees-Jones, Ann Gray, or Tomas Tranströmer. Of course my poems are on here (somewhere), but it’s really not about that. It’s about them. And that infernal Book. (Don’t know when that will be back.)