I once read an interview with the great Caitlin Moran, where she said that she found it easier to write when she had a number of different writing projects to complete than when she was writing one 800 word column per week.
Now I am not about to compare myself to Caitlin Moran (OK, I am), but I think I know how she feels. In the past few weeks life has filled up with other tasks, and blogging has taken a bit of a back seat.
I have watched as other bloggers seem to churn out posts day after day, whilst maintaining their profile across countless social media channels and still inexplicably having time to raise their children.
And I don’t know how they do it.
My mind, it seems, is not good at multi-tasking. When I am busy at work, work takes over and everything else is squeezed out. When I am house-hunting, as I have been for the past few weeks, if you could look into my mind all you would see would be an endless parade of houses and flats, school catchment areas and frantically googled “up and coming areas” (which in my price range, are not likely to be up and going anywhere before the next century).
In addition, my Yoast plugin* is telling me in a rather-too-judgemental way that the “readability” of my posts isn’t up to scratch. Apparently I need to increase the number of subheadings, reduce the length of my sentences and avoid the use of the passive voice. Frankly, all that sounds like the blogging equivalent of those NHS leaflets that consist entirely of pictures and a few massive words and appear to be based on the assumption that large swathes of the UK population are unable to read (we’ll see if this is true on Thursday. Not trying to be political or anything but VOTE REMAIN. Oh no, hang on. No one is going to read this, so what’s the point? Even if they do happen to stumble upon this post-and by my own admission, it’s one of my more pointless ones-the appalling readability score will presumably prevent them from drawing any meaning from it whatsoever).
So here I am, writing a post about how I can’t think of anything to write, my creativity has dried up, and I may as well just give it up, except that I’m not going to as there are countless things I want to write about, but I just don’t seem to be able to do them justice at present. So I am going to go to Britmums**, and hope that I find some inspiration therein.
Perhaps I will come back with the realisation that I am in the wrong job, and my real career lies in professional blogging, laying bare my life before a host of corporate sponsors. Or maybe I will realise no one knows me or cares about my writing, and fade miserably into oblivion.
Or maybe I will rise, slowly but surely, like a phoenix from the flames (sorry, couldn’t resist a little joint nod to the cultural phenomena that are the 2015 Eurovision winner and the classic nineties televisual masterpiece Fantasy Football League there) and finally make the transition from little-known ranter of rubbish on the internet to renowned power-blogger.
All I need to do now is think of something to write.***
*This is a tool which assesses my posts and tells me if they are likely to rank highly in Google search engines, for any non-bloggers/technophobes that may be reading this, and YES, I do count myself among those of you in the latter category.
**Bloggy conference thing. Watch this space if you are in any way remotely interested in hearing about a cacaphony of mummy bloggers descending upon London town for a weekend of talking about cake, Pinterest, cake on Pinterest and Instagramming everything in sight.
***And stars. I need to stop it with these bloody stars. It’s like a weird glossary of stuff no one cares about unless they have exactly the same hobbies as me, namely shouting into the internet about their life and hoping someone, somewhere, listens. GOD I AM OVER THINKING THIS. Stop it now, just stop.