I spend way too much time blogging, seriously. Its become some sick twisted addiction.
On and off since I was 12, I have kept a journal. My first few journals I spent hours meticulously censoring anything I thought someone might read about me. I filled the rest of the NINE journals with gossip about my friends and their far more interesting lives.
As my paranoia receded over the years I bought a few larger red bound journals [yes, red is a colour of importance for me]. I used to spend hours filling it up with crap. The writing was all badly constructed, poorly spelled, full of typos and scribbles I can no longer decipher. But that being said it was far more personal and intimate, which begins to get lost the moment you start blogging.
What you gain instead is a lot more coherence and fewer mundane facts, like “Dear diary, spent 20 minutes in the loo today, making silly faces at myself in the mirror.”
I think the keeping of so many journals and blogs are all so that I can feel some sense of security that someday should I ever be found wandering with amnesia in the second class women’s compartment in the western local, at least a reasonably (in)accurate record of my life will be there for me as a back up brain of sorts.
I miss the red though. I miss the smell of the pages and the things I had collected that would fall out of them as they were turned. Dried & pressed flowers from a trip to Italy, the label of a great beer I drank outside with a friend or something I’d find that had been slipped in between a page ages ago that would turn up suddenly to amuse me. Sketches or little doodles I’d look back on and think “Wow what a great idea, I need to draw that!” or “Wow, what a rubbish idea, I can’t believe I actually wrote it down!”
Yes, I do miss the all the tactile qualities of a real journal.