Who was it said "The only thing worse than blogging is not blogging"? Actually, I think it was me. It's rubbish, of course. Such is the state of the world that there are a million things at least worse than not blogging. In fact, now I'm back make that a million and one.
Anyway, I'm not really back. This is not a cause for celebration. I'm still sick of the sound of my own voice. My problems haven't gone away. I don't have anything to say. There is no purpose behind this blog. It won't be regular. It ain't aimed at any readers.
This time round I'm not going to try and build up a regular readership. So, I won't be obsessively checking my stats nor fretting over all those occasional visitors who can't be bothered to link to me. Especially, I won't be replying to Comments, if there are any. Not that I did before.
What I will be doing is recycling all the old stuff I wrote about before. In other words me. So the blog will be boring but at least it will be green. And no egos will be killed in the making of this monologue - I'm too vain to really hurt myself.. Don't expect any surprises either. All the old favourites will be there - depression, failure, hopelessness, feeble gags, navel-gazing, self-loathing and doubt. If you're a like-minded blogger welcome aboard. If you're a normal person, look away now.
It's just me trying to get a few thoughts together in public as I work on my next novel, Mummy's Boy.
No big deal. Nothing to get excited about. In fact, I'd rather you kept it quiet. Just between you and me.
Our dirty little secret.