Pointless I heard on the radio the other day that a good dairy was one which was written with no real readership in mind. Just written, whether as an obsession, an aide memoire or as a cathartic activity made no difference. Which just about sinks most political diaries these days, like Alistair Campbell's for example.

It made me wonder a little where blogging fitted in. Blogging, as has been written by far more erudite and thoughtful folks than myself, is a social phenomenon which has exposed the degree to which many normal people write. In blogging, as in so much else of life, I feel like an amateur, that is, when I'm not worried that I'm a fraud and somebody will realise this one day!

This blog, like many others is public. Therefore it is written with at least a degree of expectation that others might read it. Does it then, by the standards of those critics of diarists (above), mean that it has little literary value? Am I, by even posing the question, to be seen as one writing for an audience?

And, of course, if part of the value of a diary comes from writing and sharing those confidential little details that we would not wish to see as matters of public knowledge, should I really admit to being at a very low ebb at present? Perhaps I should save that for the other, anonymous blog. (Which incidentally I have only posted to once, like the previous version I tried a while back. And what does that say about me?! Even more annoying is the fact that I think that the name is, though I should't say so myself, a really good one. It might have to be applied here when I finally move on...)

Back to the initial point of this rambling: I am absolutely wrecked at the moment, both physically and emotionally (spiritually?). It's just been such a roller-coaster over the last few days, what with trip to GPMC and all the thoughts and opportunities stirred up by it, a lost day off and 3 disturbed nights with the children. There have been some wonderful positives, such as the news about Gloranthan canonicity, and a superb time or conversation, prayer and simply being, with Alain, the minister for the Christian Fellowship.

None of which hides the fact that as an allegedly self-employed individual (ask HM Revenue and Customs if you don't believe me!), provided with an income and housing to enable me to "perform my ministry" I could appear to be swanning around doing nothing. In fact I am swanning around doing very little, with minimal motivation and energy. Inspiration for a sermon? Hah, fat chance. No real target and no real overseer. Pretty much a total inspiration failure in fact.

Except that is, when it comes to writing this.

Pointless, and very, very odd.... One definition of sin is "missing the target." Perhaps the real issue is knowing quite what the target is...

Labels: Life, Ponderings

  ¶ 11:53 am