I love the blogosphere, but there was a reason (well, serveral, actually) I joined late. The one I’m thinking of is my discomfort with the genre’s focus on self.
I know, I know! It’s the whole point!
Maybe it’s all those uni journalism subjects retro-kicking: 'the writer is not the story'. Anyway, small doubts were easily ignored in the shining doorway of Web 2.0.
Fast forward the good part of a year to the current freelance footslog (greylead nested behind ear, trying to make a buck, etc). All is moving slowly and then the pre-eminent Dumbo feather found little earth stories (whose delightful acronym I realised, post naming, is the tattoo-knuckled truckie moniker of ‘Les’... but I digress). Df batted its eyelids at the bread post and suggested publication.
Exult or cringe?
“You look as happy as a man who thought a cat had done its business on his pie but then it turned out to be an extra large blackberry.” – George, the Prince Regent, Blackadder III
I think Df is all blackberry, so on one hand, am utterly flattered.
But on the other, I’ve discovered that small doubts left unattended have a tendency to pork up: so many more worthy bloggers… I’m just a middling drop-out without any significant accomplishments… one million displaced Burmese versus meandering bread-making escapades, and, and… when does self-consciousness become vanity?
Or more to the point, when is blogging not?
So now I must go and try to write myself out of the post that won the feather's affection!
PS: Apologies to anyone called Les. And if anyone sees any doubts on the loose, please do hit them with a large hammer!