Crossroads

I’ve tried a little experiment today. Late yesterday afternoon, it had occurred to me that I had not posted two blogs on Facebook. I know from viewing my statistics – I know where you live (I don’t really) – that Facebook is quite important in publicising this blog, but until today’s experiment I don’t think I realised how important it was.

Firstly, it’s fair to point out that after nine years, I know this blog is never going to make me any money or acquire a vast readership. I had hoped that I might ‘make it’, but then as a teenager I bought an electric guitar and amplifier in the certain belief that I’d be able to play it straight away and be an instant rock star. If this was an isolated incident of madness, it would be fine, but I have done stuff like this forever. It was a dream, not reality. So, I write for me in the hope that people will be entertained or even find something useful (unlikely). Anyway, back to the point. Today, I posted one of my typically grim, self-pitying posts about my mental health and chose not to share it on Facebook. The result? A grand total of two views and I’m pretty sure they were both me. Don’t worry: the only self-pity I feel – at least I think it’s self-pity, or maybe it’s just me asking my loyal reader to be my therapist – is about my mental health, not the lack of a column in The Times.

But then, even excellent journalists like David Aaronovitch can’t get a gig these days, following his axing by the aforementioned Times and he’s been reduced to starting his own blog on Substack (and very good it is too). As his first piece says, at least he can write what he wants now because at The Times has had to toe the line and write what his editor wanted him to write. That’s like me, except that I suspect Aaronovitch got more than two readers for his blog without having to publicise it on Facebook.

I’ve come to a crossroads now. Do I carry on writing or do I give up and allow my few remaining brain cells to turn to mush? Well it’s obvious. I’ll carry on writing for me and my loyal reader who, very kindly, makes a donation to support my work.

At least anyone can write a blog these days, which I suppose is an indication of a free country. That hardly anyone reads it probably tells a story in itself. Worse than that, writing for a living is all but impossible for the vast majority of writers, many of whom are published authors.