‘How come you’re not blogging anymore Violet?’ my difficult friend asked me. ‘Is it just for the winter or have you quit the blogging world?’ I had been thinking the very same thing. Why wasn’t I blogging? I thought very carefully before giving my answer … Continue reading And I’m back…
So I sat at my dining room table yesterday, chair in, back straight, legs crossed, phone in hand, and I sexted.
All very short. Easy writing.
Today I sat down to work on my book. Same book I’ve been working on for years. I used to write a few pages a day. Then, a page a day. That became a paragraph. Now, a couple of sentences.
These days I write short.
A few words and I’m done.
It’s the times we live in. It’s not that I don’t want to write lots anymore. I can’t. I am so distracted and I know it’s because of this digital age.
It’s the same as reading. I used to get through four books a month Now, if I get through one I think it’s fabulous and I tell everyone I know, hey hey, I read a book.
We have all become used to short.
And we’re all distracted. Apparently it’s something about our brains and dopamine and we see one thing but there’s something else to look at and our brains get excited and unfocused and let me just check my emails and look at twitter and one more tweet and oh let me see that article and that video and….
BUT IT’S OKAY!
I am not in a panic. It is what it is.
And I have decided that I don’t need to write books. Or stories. Or even blogs.
I can just stick to titles.
Here are some that I did today.
Other peoples shoes. Fashion.
This chocolate ice cream. A love story.
I want him, now. Erotica.
Get yourself that frock. Inspirational.
I dropped my last valium. Horror.
I got dressed for gym. Memoir.
I also want to climb the Trump Tower. Fitness.
The whisky bottle is empty. Disaster.
Much better. Easy to write, easy for you to read, everyone’s happy, go check Facebook, look at Instagram, and hey, look at that tweet, cool, thanks, see ya, oh man, is this my blog, where am I, what was I even writing…
I’ve developed a crush on a blogger.
Not a blogger. A commentator.
And it’s kinda fun and lovely and okay, we’ve only ever exchanged a few comments and he has no idea that I’m crushing on him at all, but it’s making me feel quite excited!
Because there is that thing of words.
My words, of which there have been thousands, make him smile. I know, because he’s told me.
His words, of which there may have only been a hundred (okay, I counted, eighty-eight) have made me smile too.
They’re funny, witty, clever and a little bit sexy.
Not too sexy. There’s no innuendo and there’s nothing overt.
They’re just lovely.
In this case, it isn’t about words being a turn on. Although I do have that little feeling in the pit of my stomach when I read him.
It’s about words that imply a connection – an understanding.
A ‘we get each other’ thing.
Really, I know nothing about this man. I don’t know where he lives, what he does or even what he looks like. From his words, though, I can imagine.
I imagine a man who is older, a little hurt, a little fragile, very bright, self-sufficient, independent, wary.
He doesn’t know anything about me. I write under a pseudonym and I could be totally different from the persona that I put out there.
He can only imagine what I’m really like.
Maybe he knows, though, that this is the unreal but real me.
Because of that connection thing.
I have no idea if he is even reading this.
And if he is, well, I hope he chooses to fly down to Johannesburg and meet me and sweep me off my feet and buy me champagne and roses and talk to me, have wild sex with me, then marry me.
Or at the very least, before the sex and the wedding, I hope he comments here.
Because I can’t help but crush on his comments.