I've been thinking about this. Is blogspot my room of my own? Is indeed my garden? There is something I am really enjoying about this blog thing because it is in no way about meeting the needs of anyone I live with. A few days ago my friend Morag told me that she thought my writing was funny. Oooh. Ah. Does this mean I'm now up for performance anxiety in case I stop being funny?
And then I remembered that I used to write really often, just for myself and just for wanting to write and having some idea that writing lots would help me get better at it. Last time I did this was in Spain in 2001. We were staying at a campsite in the Picos de Europa and while the handyman went tramping into the hills (finding cattle - reminded me of Heidi), I sat at the restaurant drinking red wine and writing. You think I'm a lush? I did not even start until 10am, sometimes 11.
So I am blogging and gardening for my pleasure. I make no promises about the final results/quality of either endeavour, but I'm enjoying the journey so far. What it's all about, I think, is that my identity will not be entirely subsumed by motherhood.
1 day ago