To Blog Or Not To Blog?

I haven't blogged for ages. I have had an excuse. So far 2013 hasn't gone according to plan. For the first three months of this year, writing was the last thing on my mind. I have now gone back to it with gusto, but I got to thinking about blogs. Should I bother?

Before the crises of the year (hereinafter known as COY), I had a merry old time on Google Reader (why did they stop it?), going down the list of blog posts from all the people I subscribe to, and then going on to discover new blogs from their blogs. I've had a laugh, I've learned some invaluable lessons, I've sympathised, empathised, and downright disagreed. But blog reading was a fine sport, and so was blog writing.

Back from the COY, my Google Reader had hundreds upon hundreds of posts. I couldn't read them all. I didn't know where to begin. So I marked all as read and decided to start anew. And then I didn't. I've read a few, commented on a few, but I haven't retained my sense of joy and of longing that I used to when I opened the reader (hereby replaced by Feedly, which looks good but the posts are piling up). So I got to thinking. Why do I read blog posts? Why do I write blog posts?

Firstly, reading. Why do I read blog posts? It depends. Sometimes I just want to have a laugh. Sometimes I just want to be reassured that I Am Not Alone. There have been some fine 'day in the life' posts recently from Author Allsorts, which are well worth a read. Sometimes I want to learn, and there are some very good blogs out there which help with research and ideas. Try Essie Fox's The Virtual Victorian, and Lee Jackson's Victorian London. Even if you don't want the research, they make for fantastic reading. When I'm writing, any tips are always gratefully received, and there is a wealth of knowledge out there in the world of bloggery. Recent posts by Vanessa Harbour and Nicky Schmidt are fine examples.

So, writing. Why do I blog? This is more difficult to answer. As a writer, albeit unpublished, I feel I ought to. It goes with the territory. I think blogging as a published writer is a different kettle of fish. Then there is more purpose - selling books, ultimately. For me, then? I guess it's a way of reaching out. The writing community is such a friendly one. Other writers understand why I talk to myself, why I can sit for ages looking at a blank screen, why I can block out the entire world when I'm, as they say, in the flow. It's the water cooler thing. It's saying something and knowing there are others out there who will get it. It's being part of something.

By writing this, then, I've answered my own question. Blogging is a Good Thing. I will blog and I will read blogs. Right then, where's Feedly?

The Living Story

Things have been a bit rubbish recently. Lovely Novel turned out to be Lousy Novel and has been discarded. The doctors thought there was a chance the cancer had come back (it hasn't). The little girl missing in Machynlleth is from the town where my family live and the whole place is, understandably, in shock. My mother broke her leg, well, her knee, but it's a full plaster and she's totally immobile. So that's that.

But, there has been a gleam, a little sparkle, a nugget of loveliness. And, bear with me here, it all started with a trip to a Victorian mortuary. Yes, I know. It doesn't sound that great. During the London Open House weekend (which is a splendid thing and everyone who can go, should go), I went to Rotherhithe to see the mortuary. I thought it would be interesting, after all, I am the woman who spent the evening at the Old Operating Theatre in London Bridge, listening to a talk about the history of autopsies. There's nothing left of the mortuary now - it's a community centre - but as I listened to the history of the place, how the building was used, how they took in the bodies washed up in the Thames, the seed of a story planted itself in my head. I spent the rest of the day wandering around Rotherhithe. I spent another day wandering around Wapping. And I went to the Crossness Pumping Station in Erith Marshes. And I read. Peter Ackroyd's London Under building in particular built on my story idea. I went mudlarking. I went to the Mayflower and the Angel (oh, such hardship in the name of research) and I scribbled notes, took photos, and let the story evolve.

It struck me how lucky I am to live in London, the place where my stories are usually set. You can still find historic buildings and atmospheric lanes. The river itself tells so much - the shores, the old jetties, moss covered steps long since abandoned. And all these things build a picture in your head, give your characters somewhere to grab onto, make the story come alive. We have excellent museums. The Museum of London has a Victorian shopping centre. Their off-shoot in the Docklands has Sailor Town - a street with a lodging house, shops, the riverfront. You are never far away from the past, whether real or imagined.

And my story? It grows day by day. I have my setting. I have my story line. I have my characters (thank you Miriam Halahmy for the fantastic SCBWI masterclass). But because of my wanderings, I have my world. It's in my head. It's real, it's breathing, it's alive. And you can't get better than that.