I’m sitting on a chair in the corner of my eldest daughter’s bedroom at half-past midnight. We both have Chromebooks propped on our laps, and we’re both writing blog posts. She’s writing something sensible - I’m writing this ridiculously recursive rubbish just to show that if you start writing something - anything - then more will probably come.
I’ve always found the act of writing fairly easy. Sure, the words that leave my fingers aren’t the prize winning confectures that win awards, but they’re mine - and quite often that’s all the counts. Faced with an internet filled with regurgitated nonsense, it’s quite comforting to think of myself as one of the few content creators. I’m tempted to call it “tilting at windmills”, but that becomes awfully close to the sort of recursive drivel I often rail against.
Anyway- my accomplice has fallen off her blogging horse. Typing has stopped, and she’s fallen head first into the bedclothes. I need to lift her back on and smack the horse on the ass. Give me a minute or two. Or an hour. Or a massive bar of chocolate.
Fast forward an hour, and I helped her write her blog post. A call for help, and a rant of sorts. She dictated, I threw ideas into the mix, and typed like fury for ten minutes. I do hope she finds some friends in this vast, sometimes empty community of bloggers we all pitch into.
After publishing the post, and looking through other bloggers starting out via the WordPress dashboard, I looked over and she had fallen fast asleep while cuddled up against me. I’m still not entirely sure how I managed to extracate myself without waking her up. Let’s call that “Christmas Eve parent skills”.