I was mulling over in the metro this morning (metro time is ME-time, if I have a seat I read, if I am standing I daydream) how blogging has changed my life.
It’s amazing what difference writing a few paragraphs a day for a modest but faithful audience of like-minded people with too much time on their hands can make. But it undeniably has.
Now, when I have a discussion with my colleagues over lunch, I no longer even know myself whether I’m picking their brains for material for a future post or just having a normal friendly conversation. Unwittingly they have become guinea pigs, even though they know nothing about petite anglaise.
What next? Will I move on to provoking arguments with colleagues/shopkeepers/members of my family so that I can reproduce them verbatim here in one of my rants? Will I put myself into dramatic situations simply for their blogging potential?
Mr Frog is aware that his actions have become ‘subject matter’ too. So if I were to come home and find him, say, wearing my clothes, then his exploits are likely to be published on the interweb sooner or later. Likewise should he make an amusing mistake when speaking my mother tongue.
Sadly he doesn’t have time to read this blog very often, and I teased him the other day that I could be having a torrid extra-non-marital affair and writing about it in the public domain, and he would still be the last to know. He did receive a number of emails back in September telling him that it was high time he made an ‘honest woman’ of me after my post about marriage, and went on to read all the comments that post elicited. I half wondered at the time whether he would try to make blogging history by proposing to me in the comments box.
I have made references in the past to how I feel about his parents, and slipped in a few hints (about suitable Christmas presents for example. Ahem!) just in case he were to pass this way. So it would seem I am also trying (and failing) to use this weblog as a way of communicating with my partner.
Yesterday in conversation with an uninitiated person, I accidentally referred to our daughter as ‘Tadpole’. Twice. Eyebrows were raised at this rather odd choice of pet name. I suspect the day I find myself signing a work email or a cheque as ‘petite anglaise’ is not far off. What started out as a mere nom de souris is becoming a person in her own right. Have I unleashed a monster?
On a positive note, I have re-discovered how enjoyable it is to create something all by myself and indulge in a small amount of writing every day. It fills the void left by settling for a string of jobs which didn’t really stimulate my whole brain after I finished university. I have found, to my amazement, that I actually like fiddling about with geeky things like css, and am in the process of creating a site for my dad’s business as a way of learning more. For fun. Who would have thought it?
Writing every day makes me think about words and language more. The spellcheck reveals to me how frenchified my English spelling is in danger of becoming if I don’t make more of an effort. Thinking about my subjects before I write often helps me to find clarity and sort out my muddled head. A form of free therapy.
Seeing that a post has attracted lots of interesting (and sometimes very lengthy) comments gives me a warm feeling inside. Praise in my comments box makes me blush. Amusing comments sometimes cause me to laugh out loud at my desk. My confidence has had a considerable boost and I think I walk taller as a result. And whatever happens in my often stressful life as a working mum, I have this jardin secret which keeps me sane and causes a little half-smile to play across my lips every time I think of it.
What a difference a blog can make.