Chat 4: It's not you it's me.

We need to talk.

I'm afraid this just isn't working. I've thought a great deal about why it isn't working and there are many reasons.

Intimacy is a major one, I think. This particular blogosphere is simply too large, too broad, too open. The atmosphere here is thin and does not nourish. I was spoilt by the cosiness of 20six where, with the merest hint of imagination, I could feel the legs and shoulders of fellow campfire visitors as we sat close around the fire; I could see the mist of their breath as it met the cold night air; I could hear the old chipped cups clink solidly against bottles of red as they were refilled with rich reds. Etc, etc...

A mysterious but undeniable feeling that entries should be "brief" is another reason. It really is true that folk do not want to wade through long, waffling passages of prose, particularly when they are close-typed and uninterrupted by pretty pictures. I know that's a broad brush-tarring, but it is true. Sorry.

A third reason (and humans seem to appreciate lists of three) is bloody Robert Dessaix.

Having been in his audience at the Newcastle Writers' Festival, I have a slight crush on him, although so much of him is irritating. I'm reading his What Are Days For (because it begins with him lying in the gutter after a heart attack), and one of the early points he makes regarding writing and thinking is that, having spent time developing (I hesitate to use "creating" for these scribbles) a written piece, one should not put it into a blog. He elaborates on all the points I've made in previous entries - and several others. And he's right.

I need an audience, true, but this just isn't working for me. I'd rather ink up a few more pages of my journal than send words out into the ether. Neither will be read, but one will last - even if it is only to be carted out to the recycle bin by some unfortunate relative a few years hence.

So, though I may be wrong, I can't see myself adding further entries to this - or any - blog. I'm not sure whether any of us use blogs any more. Do you, Bill? Do you Ellcee? No, I thought not.

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And Ellcee, please forgive me for never responding to your beautiful letter. I did start, several times, but each time something stopped me. Looking back - and please don't laugh at this, though it is pathetically laughable - I think it was the fear of what my wife would think if she knew I was corresponding with a strange woman. (No, not that kind of strange; stranger strange.)  I would dearly love to correspond, and send you photos and stickers and tell you of my world and peek into yours... but I will not. And I feel like an absolute shit for that.

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So it ends - not with a bang, but a whimper.