For yonks and yonks, literally years, I have been thinking “I should start writing in my blog again, the blog was fun”. It used to make me so happy to write things down then emotionally blackmail friends into reading those things. Side-eyeing pals who I know are online and yet aren’t clicking. Emailing loved ones with “um, not sure if you just read it and didn’t leave a comment, or you didn’t get to it yet, or…?”.
I remember after publishing the Fiji blogs, I worked myself into a panic about how I’d ever blog again, if I had anything to even say. I remember drafting that first blog back and making my then-boyfriend and my still-sister read it. “Is it interesting? Is the tone ok? What will my readership think?”
I mean, bless them both for letting me actually say the word “readership”, and for indulging me in some analytical back-and-forth without calling me on my bullshit. Because, guys, this is a free WordPress blog that a handful of people kind of enjoyed, so why did I tangle myself in that mess? It’s like my brain found a nice thing and poisoned it to give myself a challenge. YOU LIKE WRITING, DO YOU? WELL NOT FOR FUCKING LONG.
Last week I decided I’d be bold and brave and blog again. So for preparation, I poured a glass of wine and steeled myself to re-read my old blogs. I expected to feel intimidated by my own work, fuzzily remembering Let’s Get Milkshakes as my life’s peak. So I was surprised to discover a lot of the blogs are actively… bad. I just boldly used words without dictionary-checking them. Forged on ahead with sentences I’d Thesaurus’ed to the point of being unreadable. Started making a point then got bored and went sideways before abruptly ending the post.
But at the time? I was so fiercely proud of it. When I was 16 and making movies with my friends in the school holidays, the scripts were bad and the costumes were appalling and I had the best best time and was so happy. How wonderful to find something like that in adulthood, too; and how silly to ever worry about it.
I’ve been holding this blog up in my head like some sort of Literary Pinnacle I could never live up to again, which now just seems so patently hilarious. It’s a big fun stupid mess and it makes me feel good to write it. My anxious brain can mind its business, please.
So, do we need to catch up? The last post I wrote in London in 2013. Since then I’ve left London and lived back in New Zealand before moving permanently to Melbourne. These moves have meant spending almost a thousand dollars shipping boxes of belongings across continents. I wish I could tell you it was irreplaceable first-editions, high-quality kitchenware, and a winter wardrobe; but I have to confess, it was mostly wigs.
I’ve travelled and spent all my money and saved more money and spent that too. I’ve laughed so hard with “Annie” in Brazil I thought I might actually literally die. I’ve had my wisdom teeth out and got my proper grown-up driver’s license. I’ve had a day of farts that were so potent I farted myself out of my own bedroom, and then sat shivering in the lounge with the windows open, farting myself to the point of feeling dizzy. I think of this day often.
I’ve gotten really fit then unfit again, then again, then again; keeping my cardiovascular system guessing. We all know “Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen” applies to matters of the heart. I am choosing to take this literally.
I’ve had loves and jobs and cycled through various haircuts to end up back where I started. I still haven’t seen an episode of The Sopranos. If I were to get reflective, and really ponder on what I’ve done the last five years, I think most of it has probably been spent half-listening to a podcast while trying to do something else.
Thank you for being here, my esteemed readership – and I hope the tone was ok.