I think I’m losing the plot. The rules of the game I started playing when I created this silly little blog have been bent and deformed. But only by silly little me.
These texts sent out into cyberspace were originally just a post-modernist prolongation of my handwritten secret diary. The musings in that journal were for my eyes only, procuring a very simple pleasure, that of setting down thoughts onto paper. The sole aim was to string words, like pearls, onto a fine thread and once completed, to hang that hand-made necklace around my neck, look in the mirror and appreciate my creation. Sometimes it seemed a bit lopsided, too long or too short but hey, I was the only one judging my work.
But that was before. Before I opened the door and let others walk right in. Before I started looking, checking and caring who was reading what I have to say. Because it is so damned easy to become obsessed by these sadistic statistics. So simple to keep a close eye on how many people are reading, where they are reading and what colour their socks are when they are reading. Well, almost.
And I have fallen big time into this stat-trap. I can’t even admit how often I look to see how many views, likes and shares I’ve accumulated. I’m too embarrassed to describe how great it feels when someone I don’t know spends a whole afternoon reading every single word I have ever written. Or how awful it feels to know that others have unsubscribed from my follower list, obviously and understandably fed up with their inbox beeping and showing up another bloody OMGimfifty post.
So I have decided that I am going to go back to the old days and treat this blog as a simple hobby such as knitting, sewing or gardening. How many knitters hold up their handiwork every few days and ask for other knitters around the world to like their last hundred stitches? Or gardeners who pull up their carrots and ask the whole planet to come and share them? I certainly don’t know many but perhaps they are out there in this ever-decreasing voyeuristic world.
Voyeuristic? It has been nothing but my own choice to put myself out there. It is now also going to be my own choice to not give a monkey’s about who’s looking through my little square window. Like it or lump it. I don’t really care.