I couldn’t give a shit about your blog. I’d say it’s nothing personal, but in truth that’s exactly what it is, because your blog is you, your life, your innermost thoughts, out there, in the public domain. I should admire your courage, your openness and honesty. Your brutal truth. Your disarming humility, your humanity. The fact you’re so willing to open up and reveal your insecurities, the mechanisms of your daily existence. You’re real, you’re normal: we’re all insecure, we all eat, sleep, dream. I almost feel as though I know you, as if I’m living your life with you, like I’m there, a part of you and your life, your beautiful, brilliant, ordinary life, where I’m sharing your dreams and hopes, your knock-backs, disappointments and failures, the long, hard hours you put into your work, your family, your writing, your emotional release.
Do as the sign says and love yourself a bit more
And therein lies the problem. We all do exactly the same, fundamentally, and it’s no secret as to what it is to be human. Get a fucking grip. you’re not special.
Half the people who have blogs harbour ambitions of being a writer. Stop telling me about how you’re so engrossed in mapping the plot, how you’re starting to live and breathe the characters, your creations, your babies and get on and write it. The endless hours spent writing blog posts about your writing process could be spent actually writing something. But then, so could the hours spent arranging flowers (and posting pretty pictures of your arrangements on your blog), baking (and posting semi-pro shots of your magnificent cakes and mouthwatering confectionary), taking coffee with friends, making – and photographing – endless pots of speciality teas in your humble, small but tasteful cottage kitchen. So you like Earl Grey, love brownies and hate confrontation but more than anything you want to write that book and see it published.
So many blogs, so little time
Me, I like to keep quiet about my personal life, what I get up to. No-one gives a fuck that I suffer chronic insomnia, woke up at 4:30am in a state of panic and drenched in sweat as I wondered how I’m going to pay he next electricity bill and the rent while reeling amidst tumultuous thoughts whereby my abject failure both as an artist and a human being scream at me until the dawn breaks.
No-one cares that I stumbled downstairs in my dressing gown at half past six with a raging hangover, crazed and delirious from a fitful sleep punctuated by nightmares to make a cup of tea – no-brand with semi-skimmed milk from Asda, five days out of date and on the turn – that went cold while I emptied my bowels, a lose movement with a small trace of blood, before hauling my sorry arse into the spare room where the computer – hopelessly out-of-date and only semi-functional – sits and attempt to hack out some words. You don’t need to know how I pissed away my day in isolation, fielding phone calls from my mother and three different offshore sales departments. How I cooked a bland meal of pasty oven chips and a tepid frozen pizza before vegetating on the sofa in front of some brainrot ‘reality’ TV because there’s nothing else on on a Saturday night. No, you just don’t want to know.
Better just get on with it.
You don’t have to have anything (important) to say to blog about it.
And if you’re loving my work, there’s more of the same (only different) at Christophernosnibor.co.uk