Many years ago I read a rant by Robin Hobb, bashing blogging by writers. The post has since been removed from her website but you know the internet. I’m sure a resourceful surfer could track down a copy of the post floating around the aether.
The gist of it was that blogging, while a good way to interact with the fans, is a blackhole for writers, a monster that devours all their time and energy that could have been spent on, you know, actually writing.
At the time I read it I could appreciate the points she made. Now I know them to be true.
Blogging, surfing, facebooking. It’s true that since I’ve only recently relocated to Japan that I’m still in a touristy mode, travelling around and seeing the sights. All good grist for the mill. I expect to not be writing while I’m so busy gathering.
But I take too many damned photos. Three thousand five hundred so far. Sorting, editing, uploading and captioning. Thank goodness there’s not too many faces to tag. This is my abyss. Time is spiralling into it like a silvery ribbon, sucked away into oblivion, never to be seen again. And like all good abysses they are endless.