A Substitute for Train Spotting.

I was asked this morning whether I ever do anything other than blog. Such a question could be deemed to carry an implied suspicion that I’m a sad little nerd who, being genetically or psychologically incapable of living a normal life among normal people, spends his days and nights closeted in a dingy cell with only an internet connection to give him a reason to live. It might even carry the hope that one day I will gain a little self-confidence, go out into the light, and take up train spotting instead. Progress indeed.

Now, I’m sure the young woman who asked the question intended no such implication, but I chose to take the inference and examine it anyway. I thought it would be interesting to consider the reasons why I seem to lay down more blog posts than most people.

The first thing that has to be said is that certain of the detail outlined above is simply not true. The room in which I sit is hardly a dingy cell. It’s my office, and contains the sort of things you would expect to find in any private office. It has lots of pictures and plants, a desk and shelving, a wall clock, a number of reference books, a sound system, and my computer. The walls are white and the doors are stripped pine. Furthermore, I don’t have a problem with self-confidence. Emotional insecurity maybe, but not self-confidence. And I consider train spotting to be a rather more passive occupation than blogging, even if it is done out in the open.

So why do I do it? Well, it’s like this.

I’ve always been inclined to focus on one activity at a time, and it tends to play the dominant role in my life for as long as it keeps my attention. Photography was one, the theatre was another, and for the seven years between 2003 and early 2010, it was writing fiction. Earlier this year I completed my first, and probably only, novel. Having written forty two short stories and a novella by then, it felt as though I’d reached a pinnacle. I had a sense that my job was done. I don’t know whether it is or not, but for the time being there are no more stories wanting to be written.

So there I was, living alone in a house deep in the countryside. Money had been extremely tight for several years and allowed no possibility of socialising. Besides, I’m very choosy about whom I associate with. There was little, if any, prospect of getting to know the locals because they’re simply not my kind of people. The few people I considered friends all lived a long way away and had their own busy lives to lead. That gave me a bit of a dilemma because, although I am generally content with a solitary lifestyle, I’m more extroverted than introverted. That means I need to talk to people, and I need to get some response from then. It’s how extroverts function. It struck me that starting a blog might serve a useful purpose, and so it has. It's become my latest focus.

And it explains why my blog is not what you would call thematic. It isn’t arty, it isn’t about fashion or sport, it isn’t a teenager’s chat room, it isn’t a social, political or spiritual forum, and it isn’t (usually) obsessed with the emotional roller coaster that is life. Some of those things are contained within it, but none of them exclusively. It’s simply me talking to the world out there, just as I would talk to somebody sitting in my living room and sharing a few beers. That’s what gives it a certain intimacy, and why I’ve found myself feeling close to some of the regular visitors. It’s why, for example, I’m missing Dominique at the moment.

I’m sure things will change one day; they always do. I expect another focus will take its place, because that’s how life has always been for me. My photography career took me all over the country, as well as providing a working trip to the USA and Canada. My theatre career involved spending time working and socialising with a lot of different people. My current focus happens to be blogging, and blogging happens to be a solitary occupation. That’s all there is to it.

I do hope this further little trip down Self-Indulgence Lane didn’t bore you too much. Thank you for listening. Now you know why having somebody listen is important to me. There’s nothing sad about it. It’s simply a matter of finding a way to function in whatever situation I find myself.