blogging

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A rather sweet fourteen year old started to follow my blog. I am out of touch with fourteen year olds; maybe I always was . When my children were of the age, I don’t think I had time or energy what with career, aged parents, menopause, to appreciate their freshness and joy. Unless I don’t remember well enough.

I am impressed by the brio, the energy, the verve and perhaps for a while I will follow her too.

There are blogs I like and may have mentioned to the point of being blocked. In many respects would agree parallels between social media and stalking. One prolifically blogs uplifting sayings, sometimes from people no one has heard of, several times a day, rather like tweeting I suppose. These I like. Perhaps there is a book of aphorisms that he plunders, I don’t know but the supply seems at present thankfully inexhaustible.

There are bloggers who simply publish photographs, often of flowers, that arrive like gifts and one who writes daily and optimistically about her book, her writing group and how to write. That too is uplifting, a tour de force. I imagine being her; I imagine her upbringing and her parents, aunts, uncles, whoever, who gave her such unshakable faith in herself but recognise that it is differences that make the world. That sounds like sour grapes; it isn’t truly, but that is why I don’t succumb to Twitter, for fear of blurting out something unpardonable that I would regret as soon as out there.

I take heart from this community, glad when people have looked at my blog, pushed the like button or taken time to write a comment.

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