I’ve said thing before. Writing, to me, is therapy. When I have something on my mind that I need to rationalise or understand, writing it down helps me do this. It helps me break down complex situations and get to grips with why things happened or are happening.
I suppose this harks back to the origins of blogging; keeping a diary. But the other reason I keep a blog is to record what I have done, where I have been, what I have seen, and what I have felt. We have many mediums with which to record our history; Facebook statuses, Twitter tweets, Instagram posts. We share our lives with others on social media on a daily basis. But it isn’t an archive. It’s not a recording like keeping a diary is a recording. This blog allows me to look back at key chapters in my life, and experience them again:
The death of my father
How I felt when Clare passed away
Talking about Thomas
There are few ways to experience emotions you once felt. Reading your own words is one such way.
It’s also allowed me to be creative and to explore writing as art. This entry about a night at work is a real favourite: The policeman wouldn’t let him. The policeman couldn’t let him. The policeman had a job to do…
And these two fictional entries were an early (cringeworthy) dalliance with creative writing: Crimson and Kozar.
But it’s not just about me(!) Blogging in the general sense has given me an insight into people. People I care about and some people I do not care at all for. Interesting people and self-absorbed narcissists. Reading about what other people are doing and feeling and thinking is perhaps a little bit voyeuristic, yet are we not, by posting our lives online exhibitionists? I’d say so.
Maybe that is another story for another time.
