I have done two purposeful things today. I have submitted two stories to the Bridport Prize. I have set up this blog.
I’ve always held off having a blog in my name. I’ve blogged anonymously, and I like the thought of those anonymous words out there. Why on earth would they want me encumbering them?
In an interesting article in the New Yorker on the anonymous writer, Maria Bustillos notes, ‘Anonymous is more than a pseudonym. It is a stark declaration of intent: a wall explicitly thrown up, not only between writer and reader, but between the writer’s work and his life’ [my emphasis].
Last week, I was nominated to take part in a ‘blog train’ – having been tagged, I should write about how I write and then nominate three writers to do the same, and so on it goes until the whole thing goes supernova or something. I think it’s the possibility of that that made me agree.
So, hello. It appears I no longer have anyone to hide behind, not even myself.