Being a Serial Blogger

Yes, I am, thank you. I have three or four. I’ve lost count. 

Why?

I don’t know. Ask my muse. That taskmaster in my mind that makes me do this stuff. He sits there, eating the best biscuits, monocle in his eye. The posh bastard. 

But, I like telling stories. So, I’ll get on with it. 

I got an idea, one Friday evening. I got an idea to make a new blog to share true-ish stories from ordinary life. 

Nothing fancy. 

Nothing over-the-top. Or under the bottom. 

But, then, my muse piped up. 

“You have two blogs already. And neither of those are much good.”

“Rude. And bollocks to you! I hope your next crap is a pineapple!”

My muse sighed. And waved a manicured hand in a fashion not dissimilar to a posh person saying: ‘fuck you’. 

But, he did have a point. 

I do have two other blogs. And I do work hard on new content for them. Why would I give myself more work? 

Doesn’t make sense…

I found myself setting up the new blog. Pointing DNS records, thinking about the first post. The whole time, my muse was sipping earl Grey and tutting like a tutting tutterer who tuts a lot. 

So, I paused. 

And thought for a moment.

The moment passed. I carried on. This was going to be fun. A blog to dump my stories straight out of life in to. 

Then, the posh bastard sparked up:

“You’ll have a conflict of content, you know.”

Bugger.

He had a point. Much as I didn’t like to admit it. I didn’t want to leave my other blogs with nothing. And pour all the good stuff into this one. 

But…

I’m sixty years old. I’ve got stories from all of those years. No need for conflict. I can write from any of those bygone years. 

So, I made the blog. You’re reading it. 

Even my muse seems quiet (apart from firing the occasional side-eye my way). 

Right, I’m off to make a cup of coffee. In a mug. I’m not posh.