I remember when one of my colleagues caught wind of the fact that I write a blog in my spare time a couple of years ago. She asked what it was about and it came as no surprise to her, like all the others in the room at the time, when I declared my niche (or broad niche shall we say) to be travel. She went on to ask how frequently I blog and back then, unmarred by the cynicism or lethargy of a more seasoned blogger, I was fairly punctual with churning out posts once weekly, at one time even stepping up to twice weekly through means I can no longer recall (or believe) but the proof was in the WordPress and twice weekly, it was.
“Do you have enough to write about though if you’re writing that often,” she asked sincerely? I nodded affirmatively with a brief throwaway comment about how many article ideas may be conceived of one destination or holiday, swiftly averting the conversation back to the shop floor, forever uncomfortable with having too much attention drawn to myself.
The truth was, the truth is in fact, that my problem was quite the contrary – a stealth of ideas paragraphs, adjectives and photographs, chapters full of stories wanting to be told, waiting to be told, eventually losing hope of being told and an author, who despite her passion to write, never could quite keep up with her own heart. Speed was never my thing. Not in the 800m track run at high school and not in the blogging diaries either. It seems highly undisciplined, therefore, if not a little unhinged, to be throwing in content that falls outside of my boundaries when I am only, y’know, four years behind on the travel posts I so badly want to deliver.