I don't think there's anyone left to remember John Henry Skitt today,
so I'm doing it.
While I may not have been posting, I've certainly been thinking about the blog. (Oh, how wonderful it would be if thoughts translated themselves magically into words on a screen.) (But only if you had a chance to edit them first, of course. Otherwise it could get extremely messy and probably involve lawsuits.) Although I'm deplorably bad at keeping it updated, I am very fond of it; the friends I've made through it and the record it provides of the last six happy and eventful years. (Highs. Lows. Books finished. Books that stubbornly refuse to be written. Heroes. Idols. Being idle. Domestic triumphs and disasters and a smattering of philosophy.) When I started this blog my children were twelve, nine and six, and so it charts the primary school years, of Nativity plays and birthday parties and, in view of the fact that a month from now my eldest will be packing for university, I'm glad to have that record. (While being fully aware that it's of interest only to me, my mum and maybe my husband - if he actually knew where to find it.)
But, but... even having said that, I somehow can't see myself returning to those far-off days of blogging twice or three times a week, and I've been wondering why that is. Maybe I've got lazier, or maybe my life has got duller and less worthy of recording (though a glance back into the archives substantially discredits the likelihood of both theories). What I know for certain is that a day when I blog is usually a day when I don't add much to the wip, and so I often find that I'm stuck in a spiral of blog-neglect guilt versus unmet-wordcount guilt, and that such spirals tend to lead directly to the biscuit tin.
I think the main reason for the gradual falling off of my blog habit can be blamed, like lots of my other shortcomings, on twitter. Many of the staggeringly inconsequential things I used to put on here now find an outlet there and are instantly absorbed into its teeming depths. A quick glance at the list of blogs on my sidebar suggests that perhaps other people are doing the same, and that the gentle art of blogging, like letter-writing and taking afternoon tea, is being lost as technology gives us quicker ways to reach out to each other. One of the things I took away from this year's RNA Conference (in addition to a swanky silver bag bursting with books and chocolate) was the value of sites like Pinterest to authors, so I've revived my early, abandoned Pinterest interest and made a board for my past books (in addition to the three boards of various things I'd made a year or two ago and kept secret, which is probably missing the point somewhat.) I haven't quite got the hang of it all yet but will probably get there, just as the bandwagon rolls out of the station and onto the Next Big Thing. Just in case that happens to be Instagram I'm there too, after some hard sell from the daughters who all love it. I kind of love it, though I feel a bit like I've arrived in my horrific pyjamas at a party full of luscious, pouting adolescents. If anyone else is on there, please let me know and I'll gratefully
So there we are. Moving on - to a new era of family life, in which daughter #1's place at the table will be empty *sniff* and onto new arenas for keeping in touch. The blog will definitely not be abandoned, but between appearances here there are other places where I'm likely to be found, dispelling any suspicions that I've given it all up to become a sheep farmer or have quietly expired over draft 392 of my book. (Which is, as I said, a subject for another time...)