I have written 328 posts in a year and two months.
Why put everything on the internet?
It is the fashion. We write at Facebook or blogs.
Maybe in 10 years there will be silence. Fashions change.
I wonder why I don’t write in a journal, but I do not.
I used to be strictly bookish, but I sometimes write diary entries. Some prefer the bookish posts, others prefer the diary.
“Best female writers?” Everybody’s there. “Horse Races in Literature”? Fantastic.
The most popular posts recently? “Viragos Are Sometimes Inconsequential…” and “Library Books.”
I don’t even consider writing “real” articles or reviews. Whatever I write is easier in a blog.
When critics find fault with blogs, they are thinking about a world of rough drafts. It can take days, weeks, months to write a good article. Blogs are often more a collection of notes. Often very good notes. (I have read some excellent blogs lately.) Journalists don’t understand bloggers’ socializing in comments and “challenges.” Comments? Well, why bother? The Guardian now posts comments as articles, without, I presume, paying the commenters.
Before I move on to bookish things, I am going to write a post about my mother again.
She died last August. I loved knowing that she was in the world, playing bridge, watching the soaps, not cooperating at the nursing home. I didn’t visited every day. When I couldn’t bicycle, I took the bus and then called my husband for a ride home. (The neighborhood wasn’t safe after 5, or more like 3.) I would plan to visit for one hour, and then stay till 7 p.m. Since she wouldn’t eat the prepared food at the nursing home, I rushed out and bought hamburgers from McDonald’s; another time she resisted taking a shower for a week, and I had to convince her to go with the aide; and another time she had fallen and been left in the bathroom all night.
And this was one of the better nursing homes.
There is a lot of grief in families as one gets older. My father wanted to visit her. She was fascinated by him, but would have been mortified to receive him in old age. She thought a great deal about how she looked,. She wore a wig. She worried about the spots on her face. You know the creams advertised on TV? They don’t work. If she and my father had stayed together, she would not have been in a nursing home. That was the most exasperating thing.
My mother never remarried; my father had his pick. I tried to straighten things out from time to time. Utterly ridiculous.
And so another day of wondering about the past. I really miss her.