I like to write but don’t have a book in me. Or any poems. Not good ones, at any rate.This strikes me as a fun hobby where I can write and learn computer stuff as I go along. The theory is that, because it’s in a public space, the fear of people pointing and shouting “Lazy bones! Shame on your lazy, quitting bones!” will make me stick at it.
I’ll also get to look at a whole bunch of words I’ve stuck together in ways of my choosing and feel that “Ahh, there it is – actual material work produced” feeling of satisfaction. I’ll be producing something I can see, no matter the quality, which I hope wll improve.
Mothering, in contrast, while rewarding in all sorts of ways, is a work in progress where the end product (or child, as society will insist on calling it) cannot, obviously, be categorized neatly under subheadings and certainly cannot be edited (I’ve tried. It ends in tears). You never know if you are mothering correctly or even in the same neighbourhood as correctly. You’ll only know how well, or badly, you’ve done if your loin-fruit turn up for your funeral, and even then it might be because their therapist told them they needed to do it for “closure”. Blogging will, I hope, satisfy the need to see a finished something. Something completed. There it is; a whole heap of words. Piles of ’em. There.