Five Years on the Blog

I just spotted my five year anniversary of blogging on the site was April just gone. So what I hear you cry? And, to be honest, that’s a tough one to answer.

Regardless I shall attempt to blab some more shizney to enlighten thee as to the psychology behind a blogger, or behind me as a blogger anywho. Yes, yes, it almost definitely has something to do with my father being a media-whore of sorts – and I too blame him somewhat. But jokes aside, here’s the real low-down…

I’ve dabbled in journalism for the best part of two decades, and I do like to write – despite my lack of qualifications and, indeed, ability. In one of the books I’ve read on writing, one simply stated the difference between a writer, and someone who isn’t is that a writer writes. Or as a certain Mr Hemingway put it:

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

It’s a good habit I guess. Certainly better – and cheaper – than crack, smack, or the odd like of Columbian marching powder. And almost definitely a healthier option than the booze and fags I consume whilst scribbling this shit.

I started my blog prior to my travels to India and China. I think I’d shut down my Facebook for some silly domesticated reason, and despite knowing full-well most of my amigos would never read this crap: I wrote it anyway. Mum would love it, definitely.

I will write a book or five one day so it’s good practice I guess. A picture paints a thousand words as those Instagram-junkies will know – but you won’t really learn that much from them, sure it’s a fucking apple, but you get the point; books and reading (in general) educate, inform and/or entertain. The reason humans are so developed is based purely on the fact we learnt to read and write. That said, I’m still struggling with both but you get the gist.

It will also help me when I get even older and scattier. My memory is already fairly whack and I must remember some of the truly incredible times I’ve had; how I felt, the scenes that I’ve sampled, the larger-than-life experiences I’ve had the pleasure to live.

So for me it’s a place to write my graffiti – like that brick wall in Rye Market where a humungous, artistically penned, ‘OWEN’ magically appeared overnight on my final day of school. That definitely wasn’t anything to do with me though: naturally. And let’s face it, I’ve never been short of words or tales.

Writing is a therapeutic habit at that. It cleanses the soul a little. This way I don’t have to fanny about with church or whatevs: this is how I repent. This is how I air my dirty laundry in public, and I’m proud of those skid-marks too. Write on player, write on.

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