Some of you may have seen the show Electric Dreams on television last night – it was about this family that had their house transformed into a replica of one from the 1970s, thus taking out nearly all modern comforts and gadgets. The first time the family returned to their house there were the usual shrieks of shock, but as I watched I admit there was a part of me – a small part – that was slightly envious. I also remember a time when all I had for entertainment was a hand held transistor radio in my bedroom, when I made mix tapes (off the radio, not an LP) and when I had to put up with temperamental television sets.
The life you had was your own; you didn’t have to splice it with any online identit(ies) or presence.
I must admit there have been a procession of events this past week that altogether have made me question this blog, this space. This question isn’t necessarily fair either, as it’s not the blog’s ‘fault’. No, the fault is mine and I am casting about for excuses.
The problem is that I don’t know what the problem is with me.
My concentration span is zero, I am sleeping more than ever, I am not training. I am even (and brace yourselves) doing housework. Anything to avoid writing.
Of course, I am exaggerating slightly. I am sending off a story this week, actually. To re-balance out the two rejection letters that came in last month (in my defence, however, one of those pieces I have absolutely no recollection of even posting. Perhaps I did it in the strange, sad weeks following Dad’s death).
So as I muck my way through this month, when I’m supposed to be writing more words than ever, I’ll just try to imagine I’m in that 1970’s house. More than that, I might have to step back from teh Internetz.
At least I’ll try.
