As Curious Quill reaches its first minor landmark of fifty posts, I thought I'd treat you to a boring and self-indulgent examination of the whys and wherefores of my writing. What blogging means to me. And why I'm determined not to succumb to the three-month itch.
When I started writing this last summer, I didn't know what I wanted it to be (note the dodgy url). I knew that I didn't want some sort of horrible online, confessional diary. Nor did I want a bland, unfiltered stream of information. I knew at least that character was important.
Cramming googlable content in would be as evil as foie gras. I didn't want to shovel meaningless traffic my way by using keywords like SEX or HOT or JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE. In fact I wasn't that bothered about building up a huge readership, as long as I had one. And as long as some proportion of that readership was anonymous to me. What was important was to have a voice, even if that voice didn't yet have anything to say.
Like most first-time bloggers, I was sucked into the usual traps. Pompous and self-important posts about how wonderful the new world of blogging was, especially now that I was here. Horrendous posts about the weather. Any old crap thrown together in an attempt to avoid the "blahgs". Posts that referenced private jokes that even the left half of my own brain wasn't in on. Too many gimmicks.
And yet, looking through all the dross I've spewed onto these virtual pages over the last eight months, I still reckon it was worth it, if just for those moments when I really had something to say, something to rage against, rant about, praise, something to laugh at or with. Something that excited to me. Some spark.
I won't make any resolutions. No promises about getting better, blogging more, breaking new ground, expanding readership, closing my mind or opening it up. No promises but one: I'm here to stay.
When I started writing this last summer, I didn't know what I wanted it to be (note the dodgy url). I knew that I didn't want some sort of horrible online, confessional diary. Nor did I want a bland, unfiltered stream of information. I knew at least that character was important.
Cramming googlable content in would be as evil as foie gras. I didn't want to shovel meaningless traffic my way by using keywords like SEX or HOT or JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE. In fact I wasn't that bothered about building up a huge readership, as long as I had one. And as long as some proportion of that readership was anonymous to me. What was important was to have a voice, even if that voice didn't yet have anything to say.
Like most first-time bloggers, I was sucked into the usual traps. Pompous and self-important posts about how wonderful the new world of blogging was, especially now that I was here. Horrendous posts about the weather. Any old crap thrown together in an attempt to avoid the "blahgs". Posts that referenced private jokes that even the left half of my own brain wasn't in on. Too many gimmicks.
And yet, looking through all the dross I've spewed onto these virtual pages over the last eight months, I still reckon it was worth it, if just for those moments when I really had something to say, something to rage against, rant about, praise, something to laugh at or with. Something that excited to me. Some spark.
I won't make any resolutions. No promises about getting better, blogging more, breaking new ground, expanding readership, closing my mind or opening it up. No promises but one: I'm here to stay.
