This blog

Sometimes I go off into a little reverie about this blog, and how much I like writing it, and how nice it is when people comment on it, and so on.

Then I think about all the pieces I'd like to write, and those that I've got half-finished, or more-than-half-finished, and how great they will (/might) be one day. I get quite into them, figuring out particular angles and turns of phrase that I think will please you, or at least me. At times I have so many ideas that it's as if there's almost too much choice, except that that's fine because there's really no such thing as "too much choice" - it's just a load more opportunities fizzing around, which is great.

So I have this little conversation with myself about the whole thing, and my writing, and maybe a photo or two, and how - perhaps, if I'm very lucky - I'll have written something that, when I go back and reread it weeks, months or years later, I might actually enjoy it, or even go, "gosh, this is actually OK you know".

And then the bus reaches my stop, or the tube train rushes into my station or whatever, and I snap out of it: I'm back.

And I haven't written a bloody word.