I struggled to find something to write about this evening. This was in part down to feeling shattered at the end of a day which comparatively speaking wasn’t especially demanding. The usual pressures had weighed heavily on my mind as I wandered off towards Westfield in pursuit of the haircut I needed to correct the error of judgement I’d paid for five or so weeks before.
By the time I got home two big things dominated my thought processes. If I enjoy writing I should, theoretically be able to find sufficient to write about every single day. And .. more distressingly .. what on earth was I going to write about this evening?
It’s an odd thing to think really. If I stop and think about it I’m left with one overwhelming question. Who on earth really cares what I want to write about this evening? What makes me think I’m so important?
Writing is an addiction. It’s a drug. There’s a promise implicit in a blank form on a WordPress blog: It doesn’t matter what you write, I’ll make you look good.
With a promise like that ringing around my head it’s little wonder I’m sat here at the laptop allowing my stream of consciousness make it to the screen. God only knows what people will think when they read it, if they read it.
The audience isn’t really important. Bubbling away on the hob as I tip-tap away at the keyboard is a homemade tomato sauce. The knackered Le Creuset beside it with three-quarters of a packet of spaghetti. Two onions, two tins of chopped tomatoes, a few cloves of garlic and some fresh basil has taken an hour or so to reduce during which time I’ve relaxed listening to the brilliant Melting Point from Radio 3 on Saturday night. We’ll sit down to eat this modest creation listening to tonight’s Archers, the mental image of domestic bliss complete.
Sure, it’s not the most gripping of blog posts. But at least it’s honest. And there’s a sort of recipe for tomato sauce thrown in.