Blog the first

So this is it, my very first blog, being written in a b&b in Watton. And judging by the length of time between setting up the name and actually putting in an offering, blog número deux may be a while in the coming.

The leadless pencil is apt then. It was my favourite name; after all my first, second and subsequent choices had been taken by other WordPress bloggers.
I set it up a few weeks ago when a friend said that she was starting one and I’d had fun writing verbose descriptions on fb when I’d been in Barca, so I thought it would be good for me. She, however, is very involved in local stuff; music, arts, etc. So hers can wrap itself round a purpose. Mine on the other hand. Hmmm.

A travel blog? My Spanish trip last month was the first holiday in two years so I don’t get out much. Although I am currently writing this inaugural bobbins in Norfolk. That’s definitely somewhere else to where I normally am. You can see the stars here for one thing. Properly. It is like the proverbial blanket and they are incredibly bright. I was impressed last night. I’m not impressed with some crap band that appear to be gigging or practising next door to me, with some shouty ugh ughing guy, who could be a groupie or could be the lead singer. I could never do a review blog, I’d be lynched.

A coding blog? You’re yawning already. Although I did encapsulate some tricky data into one nested select with some lovely analytical functions the other day. Yup, you’re still yawning.

A gay blog? Considering nuns probably have more traffic than me, it’s not going to have a lot to say.

For what then, am I bothering with all this? Well, I think it seemed like a good way to just practise using the writing muscle, regularly ish. Ideally I’d like to write stories and stuff but I’m inherently lazy and I lack a bit of confidence and I don’t actually have any ideas in the first place. So I’m thinking, maybe it’s just that I haven’t actually used that part of my brain much, what with being a plinky plonk code monkey for so many years. Maybe, writing about any old shit, is still writing and therefore realigning some crucial synaptic receptors to get me to a purpose or idea or inclination. Plus writing where other people can see if they can be arsed is a tad more scary than keeping it to myself. Feel the fear etc.
So, this could be the first of many…or it could be the last of one. Who knows.

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