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"De quoi écrire?"
Hermann Fenner-Behmer |
What to write about?
When it comes to blogs, journals, or personal letters (you remember—those things you write to a friend and put in the mailbox with a postage stamp), should we ever really ask ourselves that question? Probably not. Blogs, personal ones anyway, shouldn't feel like a writing assignment, nor should journals or letters. They should all come under the heading of "leisure," even "fun." Yet, inevitably, they sometimes become an obligation—an obligation that, admittedly, we place on ourselves. We should keep reminding ourselves that even that long-overdue letter can wait another day, another week; after all, if the recipient is a true friend, he or she won't hold the delay against you.
Of the three, I feel least guilty about my journal because, supposedly, it's there for me and not vice-versa. The same is true of this blog, but only to an extent; I do have readers, and I know I feel disappointed if one of the blogs I follow doesn't post anything for a week or more. (If it gets on to two months or more, I usually unfollow them. My blog list is too long as it is!)
The painting above reminds me so much of my salad days, when I would hole up in a café with my journal and a book, feeling very Left Bank-ish and literary. I'd fill page after page with angst or random ramblings, imagining that someone fifty or sixty years down the road would find my journal in an antique shop and be utterly fascinated by my life and my verbal stylings. My book would usually be a Virago title; back then, Viragos were clad in black or the later green. They were visually unmistakable—at least, they were by other readers of middlebrow, neglected authors. My coffee would grow cold, and the server would tire of coming by to warm up my cup, because I sat there so long. The ashtray (yes, those were the days not only when I smoked, but when smoking was allowed in cafés and restaurants) would be overflowing with squashed butts. Ah, those were the days!
Nowadays, I look at the blank "New Post" page on my screen, scratching my head and mentally asking myself, "De quoi écrire?" No, not really. I may be pretentious, but I do think in English.
