This title and subject did the rounds of the blogosphere late last year. I was too caught up in other things at the time to write anything at all, but Carly Findlay’s (kind of related) post here reminded me. Carly’s post is more about reasons to blog, including as a road to becoming a published writer.

There is of course a difference between being a published writer and publishing on your own blog, but for me at this moment just having my writing read by a niche (read very small) bunch of intelligent, thoughtful and talented people including my friends and family is enough for me. Ever since I was a child, I have loved to write, and it is a lovely thing to have a little audience. I stopped journaling when I moved to Sydney, which is a very great pity, because there is nothing that preserves and distils your memories like setting them down in handwriting. I am still in the first quarter of my gorgeous Italian journal from 2005, even though I keep promising myself to begin again . Maybe I just need a new book, like my sister’s, to renew the habit). My sister Indigo is a fearsomely prodigious journal writer, I imagine a room full of her filled tomes, crammed with her flowing river-like handwriting. Which brings  to mind a scene from the “book” that I am writing, and that is the other thing that I am thinking of in this new year, my lovely little story, with my characters that I love, and their sad and wondrous collection of tales. It has come to remind me of a Tom Waits song, this story of mine, and that makes me smile and look forward to seeing what comes next, and to watching the way that writing seems to unravel itself in unexpected ways on the page.

I blog because I have to write; I write to be read; I write to remember and to love and grieve, and to fill up that little cardboard suitcase rattling with stories, but most of all, I  blog because it makes me write more, and because perhaps, as I wrote here, ‘books emerge’. (There is that breath taking Pablo Neruda poem again.)