People ask me why I blog. No one reads anything any more, they say. It’s all pictures. So I went on Pinterest in an effort to drive traffic to my blog. I doubt it’s worked as I’m not giving it the attention it needs. But then Pinterest was yesterday’s news, they say. Today it’s Instagram. Spare me. I know we live in a world driven by social media and an insatiable need to connect, but it’s doing my head in. I tried Twitter and apart from giving me something to do if I’m stuck in a queue somewhere, that hasn’t helped much either. I know I rarely click through to read what’s been posted because the story is so often in the headline. And my Twitter feed during the Pope’s visit made me question why I ever felt the need to know what some people think. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.
Anyway, I decided to give Instagram a go – but only for my latest blog devoted entirely to cemeteries, epitaphs, and gravestones. That way I can keep track of how successful (or not) it is. I’m not holding my breath. For me the effort needed doesn’t warrant the return, but I’ll give it bash for a few months and see.
So back to why I blog if so few people are reading?
Friends in far-flung places are curious about what I’m up to, particularly life in the village. Those posts seem to resonate. Other acquaintances liked the Budapest Times series. Those who travel have switched over to my travel blog – an offshoot of Unpacking My Bottom Drawer – where I now post all my travel stuff. Trouble is, if I’m not travelling, I don’t post so subscribing to that is a little like binge watching a box set – all or nothing. Readership on that is sketchy, but for me, it’s a record of where I’ve been and what impressed me – an aide memoir, if you like, one that’s there for public consumption.
That’s a lot of why I blog – to keep a record of fleeting thoughts and quiet moments; of people, places, and events; of books I’ve read and plays I’ve seen. My memory is slowly dissolving to the point that I can read something I wrote 10 years ago and wonder who wrote it as it rings not the faintest of bells.
But it’s the Grateful series that really keeps me anchored, the one I can’t miss, the weekly blog that keeps me focused.
Back in 2012 when I started the series, Grateful 18 was about a trip to Eger and how ‘my appreciation of the ordinary, the mundane, has grown in leaps and bounds’. In 2013, I was grateful for my love of reading and for those authors whose ability to paint pictures with words transports me to other worlds from the comfort of my couch – and in particular Peter May and the lovely Finlay McLeod. In 2014, in Week 18, I had a meltdown (I’d forgotten all about it) but was saved by a young friend, Deak Attila and was grateful that age is not a barrier to friendship. In 2015, I was
…keeping fairly constant company with a lovely man who has the most amazing green eyes and even more amazing hands. He’s in his mid-fifties, Jewish, Israeli, and absolutely and utterly fascinating. He goes by many names but the one I like most is his real one – Gabriel Allon.
Now, that I remember well. Wow. The following year, when Grateful 18 came around, I was in Rosslare revelling in the quacky and the zany having visited a house that had been shipped to Ireland in pieces from Paris in the 1900s and then put back together. In 2017, I was in the village enjoying a watermelon prayer flag a friend had crocheted and reminding myself to make better use of my time.
This year, 2018, I’m grateful that I’m in the habit of being grateful.