I got an email from a reader the other day enquiring after my well-being and suddenly realised I hadn’t blogged in over a month.
The truth of the matter is that I’m fine – indeed, we all are – but the inclination to blog, which has been on the wane for some time, seems to have finally left me, and, this time, I suspect it might be permanent.
When Tadpole says something funny or disturbing – such as yesterday, when we were sharing a bath and she confessed she rather likes the taste of her own crottes de nez – I’m no longer overcome by an overwhelming desire to rush to my keyboard and share her words with the world at large. I tend to update my facebook status instead, and I find that eliciting a few brief responses from my friends usually satisfies any cravings I might have for a spot of banter or virtual interaction.
For a long time I put this changed state of affairs down to the fact that I was writing for a living; I reasoned that it was normal, really, to want to do something other than write in my spare time. But I’ve been on hiatus, bookwise, since the springtime, and the desire to express myself in the form of lengthy blog posts online hasn’t miraculously returned, so it would seem that wasn’t the real explanation, after all.
I read an article a month or so ago about Liz Jones, a newspaper columnist who has made a living out of sharing every aspect of her personal life, showing little or no regard for the feelings or right to privacy of the partners/lovers/neighbours that she uses for material. It left a nasty taste in my mouth. Personal blogging was something I felt the need to do during a short, pivotal period of my life but, as I hope I demonstrated in my memoir, I realised, with hindsight, that particular path was strewn with landmines. I learnt some valuable lessons from the experience and will always be grateful for the doors which opened as a result.
But now I’ve moved on.
When my publisher asked me to pen a host of first person articles to coincide with the launch of ‘French Kissing’, I wasn’t at all keen. None of the pitches I sent, somewhat reluctantly, to various newspapers and magazines were actually commissioned, and while I’m sure this didn’t do sales of the book any good, I felt nothing but relief. By choosing to write a novel, I’d consciously taken a step away from tell-all, first person writing. Admittedly, some of the subject matter might have seemed familiar to regular blog readers – single motherhood, expat life in Paris, dabbling with online dating – but every scene and every last shred of dialogue was invented. I found it more enjoyable, making use of some of my experiences in a fictional context, once removed from my own life. Which is why plugging the novel by writing no-holds-barred pieces about my personal life would have felt like a leap backwards.
So. Let’s make this official. I’ll post updates here if I have any exciting book-related news – such as the French translation of ‘petite’, which will finally be published in my adoptive country on November 4th – and I’m sure I’ll drop by to upload a photo of the new baby, a month (or less) from now. I’m still on facebook – both in a personal capacity, and as an author – and am in the process of reviving my long neglected twitter account.
But, as far as personal blogging is concerned, I’ve turned the page. And it feels good.