Most of my posts first get written into a small black notebook. A paper one. I scribble while I am waiting for the boys to finish their tennis or swimming lesson. I scribble when waiting at the doctor’s. I try to carry the black notebook with me whenever there might be a chance of some spare time. Pens are living in my bag anyway. At the end of the day, when Husband is away doing sports or we both feel like having a computer evening, I sit down and type it into the other notebook – the silvery electronic one. While doing that a lot of the sentences get re-phrases (made better, I hope), but the core of the thing stays the same. When finished, the draft in the notebook gets a tick. Done with it.
But some of them never get the tick. Some of them never make it online, they stay put in the little black book. Funnily enough, it still feels good to have them written down.
That was the original purpose of starting a blog: finding a home for some of the random thoughts that wander through my mind. Bundling them, putting them somewhere, so that they can stop turning up in my head again and again. Filed somewhere, so to say. I had written down stuff before, loose threads, but it never gave me the feeling of giving them a home. This blog is now their home, if they get read, that is fine, if not, well, so be it then. I am not kidding myself that the world has been waiting for my strange (or boring) ideas. There is a lot of everything already out there. But in my tiny corner of the web all of these thoughts can hop around, and somehow it feels good to give them a home there.
But back to the ones that stay in the book. Sometimes I write something – something that occupies my mind a lot at that moment – and I do not find the time to put it here. And then a couple of days pass, and I would have the time, but I think, hmmm. Should I really put this online? Somehow the need is gone. Maybe there are types of thoughts that prefer to be stuck in the little black book. They seem to be happy there.
(By the way, sometimes I also just sit down at the computer and start writing from scratch.)
(But yes, this post also originally was written down in the small book. Although I changed it around a lot. Sometimes it is easier to re-write it then trying to decipher my own handwriting.)
What was the point of all this?
No idea. Does everything have to have a point, always? (The answer might be yes, but I am not so sure.)
Maybe it is just something that wanted to be written down. In any case the process of writing made me kind of happy, which already would be some sort of point, right?