When you begin to write your story online, it becomes hard to know how to end it. While the story may reach a point of closure, the life from which the story stems continues to flow on and on, like an obnoxious, rambling stream.
In this sense, creating a personal blog is a lot like damming a river. While it can bring moments of joy and exhilaration for an afternoon, it’s impermanent. It’s also impossible to contain. The river, it’s bigger than all of us.
When I stopped writing this blog last year, it was at a point when I realised that life was far bigger than this online space. When I stopped blogging, the river of life still rushed on; the writing did not.
I don’t write as often as I once did, but the intention and drive are still there, in the very lines I walk as I move through the world. For now, I’m working in the heart of the city, right near the State Library. Twice a week I catch a train to the city and back again, and every time we round the tracks at Richmond I gasp at the sight of Melbourne. On the train I read, take notes, and hold on to ideas when they won’t leave me alone. I’m building, holding on to the hope that it might be something. These notes are tucked into the pockets of my work dress, along with lipstick, Matchbox cars and clothes pegs.
At home, my kids grow bigger and brighter; my husband is a constant source of support and love, and my salary pays for piano lessons. In this small life, I have everything I need.
The writing will come, as long as I turn off the wifi.
Thank you to everyone who has ever read or commented on a post. Special thanks go to Gill Harrison (co-writer), Torre DeRoche (enabler and creative brains trust), Eden Riley, Deb Grinter, Allison Tait, Bron Mandile and Christine Tait-Lees.