You always wanted to keep a journal. You did, in fact, keep a journal. Unfortunately, given that you were a teenager at the time and that you took the whole private confidante thing very seriously, the writing therein is actually so painfully pompous and gauche that even today you sometimes wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat of embarrassment as your subconscious reminds you of a snippet of something you once scribbled down. And that’s after not having looked at it – or rather, them – in fifteen years.
Later on you wrote letters. Which was rather better as a medium for keeping you on the straight and narrow, but absolutely pants as a personal record to jog your fading memory in years to come. No, you did not photocopy your own letters and store them safely away for posterity. In any case, the advent of email put paid to all that. There’s something about the fact that you can just dash off a line or two every other day which brings all your champion procrastination instincts to the fore.
This blogging format though seems about perfect. There’s the carrot of a wider audience to pander to your delusions of grandeur and ensure that you don’t disappear into your own navel too often. And the stick of feeling obliged to write in it relatively regularly so your public can sigh in appreciation. And you can edit. And there’s a spell checker. Superb.
More importantly, it also seems to be providing an outlet for all the inrussiaing which you hitherto had inflicted on friends, family, acquaintances, passing strangers, trees, etc.
Occasionally you may deviate and actually write about something else. Readers can rest assured that this will be a temporary aberration and normal service will be resumed shortly thereafter.