Ten years of blogging

A couple of weeks ago it was my ten year bloggerversary! Ten years of dumping random shit on the internet with badly lit photos. I am so pleased that I have kept blogging; it has been inconsequential drivel mostly - with occasional forays into middle-aged-grumping, proud-mum-boasting and husband-mocking.

I go back into past posts all the time and look at what I was doing - what the boys were doing - what I was sewing. Am I allowed to say that I am often amazed at all the pretty quilts I've made? Especially the ones with intricate piecing or quilting. Generally I would say that I can't be bothered making tricky quilts,but the evidence is there. More practically, the blog is a tremendous help to keep track of what year we did things, or when we last had the house repainted, or how old the dog is.

Will there be another ten years? Who would know. I am a compulsive writer about myself. This is not an attractive character trait. I kept diaries from the ages of 10 to 16 - wrote letters every couple of days to friends and family when I left home at 17 - then faxes when I moved to Australia at 23 - finally emails at about the age of 30 and now blogs! where I broadcast my daily existence to people who don't even know me. What a wonderful thing technology is.

I genuinely think it is a compulsion, like people who find their happy place in writing fiction, or gardening, or cooking. Blogging is not a chore for me - I will write in my blog before doing other things, because I like it. Even though I write for a living, I am happy to keep doing it in my spare time as long as I'm writing about myself. I can't do fiction, or journalism, I've tried. Like I say, I think this says something disturbing about my psyche. It's all about ME....