I need to ask you to allow me to navel gaze. Why I’m asking permission, I’m not sure, after all blogging is a self-indulgent activity. I put my thoughts on the screen and expect you to (a) read them and (b) find them interesting – (b) doesn’t naturally follow (a) but thank you anyway. Lately, I’ve been wondering why I bother blogging. I don’t have a massive following and I certainly don’t get nominated for bloggy awards. My posting is, at the best of times, sporadic as I favour the ‘waiting for inspiration’ approach where a post is slowly stewed and then finally emitted as an enormous, post-roast dinner belch. So why do I feel the need to write?
I’ve not been proud of myself recently. I’ve become more than a bit shouty with the kids. Having read this superb article by The Orange Rhino I now consider myself in rehab but it has led to some soul searching as to where my throat-shredding volume (and shameful lack of patience) has come from. Digging around inside my cranky old brain, I eliminated PMT, the kids being on the slippery slope to ASBOs (they’re generally quite sweet) and any other stress-inducing factors I was immediately aware of. What had turned me into a fishwife? What had changed? And then it struck me that the onset of foulness commenced around the same time I left the comfort of my office job and went freelance.
Ah, freelancing! Working when you want, having a midday nap, endless coffee and cake, having no sustained adult conversation. HAVING NO SUSTAINED ADULT CONVERSATION?! I’d struck psycho gold. I have no one to listen to me for the bulk of the day so when the kids come home and they don’t chuffin’ listen to me either then the frustration builds until it pops. Through no fault of their own, they have become vinegar to my bicarbonate of soda. There has been lots of fizzing and quite often a big explosion. Add into that chemical reaction my having embarked on a whole new and uncertain career, spoon in a lump of the sense that I’m not yet quite where I want to be and it’s a recipe for psychological/emotional/parenting disaster. This wasn’t a side effect of freelancing that I’d anticipated having a problem with. Unpaid invoices – yes. Lack of crazy watercooler chat – no.
But what has this got to do with why I want write? I’ve realised that since becoming freelance I’ve done very little blogging – perhaps even less than usual. My voice (small as it may be) has stopped being heard in the virtual as well as the real world. Whilst I can’t rent a mob to come and sit around my laptop and recreate an office environment (eek, but do I want one?), I can keep on communicating via blogging. Really, that’s not as sad and lonely as it sounds. It might put an end to my chats with the goldfish. And talking of animals, writing might just stop me being an almighty cow. If that’s all I get from blogging then that’s good enough for me.