I have to say that I'm really, really pleased that I've got this far in NaBloPoMo without skipping a day. I'm not fussed that it's patchy, just pleased that I've completed a post everyday. When this is over, I'll enjoy writing some posts that take me several nights to write because I'm struggling to make the words come out how I mean them to. But I like quick too. I like the nightly ritual, even if I haven't been going to bed as early as I should. Which is nothing new.
I'm still only up to S in the great list of participant blogs so I'm trying to resign myself to not viewing them all. Which is a pity in a way. Reviewing, even briefly, all these blogs has given me a lot to think about the nature of blogging. It fascinates me, this idea of quick publishing and microaudiences. And yet a lot of people seem to write as though they're talking to millions. Which they might be. And others write as if no-one at all will read them, as though it is a private journal. Some people take great care with their words and how their page looks and some, very little. One thing I've noticed is that a lot of people seem to be running out of things to write about. My experience has been quite the opposite, the more often I write, the more things I can think of to write about. I still haven't had to resort to my list of half baked ideas. In some ways, I'd quite like it if there was a little less in my head. So that I could think deeper about fewer things.
One thing that I've found is that I quickly made a routine with what I write on certain nights. Tuesday is self portrait challenge, Wednesday is NaBloPoMo reflection night, Friday a meme. Throw in something about the garden, or maybe some making or baking and that's at least five days covered already. My life always gravitates towards a routine and I find them deeply comforting. So I don't always see the benefits of trying something new. Grace didn't have a morning nap on account of playgroup today and as a consequence had a monster afternoon sleep. I lay on the couch and read a novel, I can't remember the last time that happened. Could I make that a routine once or twice a week? Even if just for twenty minutes?
I had a whole lot more I wanted to say about blogging as a possible literary form. It was all quite well formed in my head this afternoon as I was planting a succulent border. Now it's gone and I can't stay up really late waiting for it to come back. Work tomorrow. Sigh. Sleep. Must. Yes. OK. Done.