The title of this post refers to that song from ‘Camelot’ by Lerner and Loewe. If memory serves, it’s Lancelot thinking about which season of the year he might best leave his true love.
“If ever I would leave you," he muses, "it wouldn't be in springtime.”
I’ve been doing this blog thing for quite a number of years now and, if ever I were to leave it, it would definitely be at this time of year.
The start of the New Year.
The very easiest time to go.
Christmas time creates a small hiatus in the whole blogging game. At Least it does for me. Maybe there’s a post missed. Maybe that’s doubled up with a rather lazy post that is nothing more than a summary of posts from the year past. Whatever the reason, some natural momentum is lost. New Year then lands and it stretches ahead, momentum-less and long.
A post a week comes to about 48 posts a year, given the inevitable couple of weeks which will be lost along the way. At this moment, and same as always, I have not one single solitary clue as to what any of these posts will be about. Not one.
There’s always that tiny voice in here somewhere.
“Why bother?” It simply says.
This time of year it’s a little louder than at any other time of the year.
“Why bother? Who gives a shit anyway? Wouldn’t you be better using this valuable time to progress that ‘thing’. You know, that ‘thing’ that might actually lead somewhere if you could get it wrapped up tight. Come on, dude. Give it up. Just slip away. Let it go.”
I suppose people who stack up posts have an easier time of it. When there’s a lull, an instance of self-doubt, that little nest egg of thoughts and dreams could carry you through. That wouldn’t be my way, though. If the blog has any value at all, it is that it is fresh and ‘of its moment’. Every week, I try to identify some single thing that is sitting up prominently in my mind and I give it eight hundred words, or so, to see where it might lead. It’s often a useful exercise, for me at least.
As for the posts themselves, I find they tend to circle around a smallish hillock of recurring concerns and themes. Out of a year’s worth of posts, I might look back and see four or five that might be of some limited value. If I’m lucky, there might be one or two with lasting interest. Last year, there was one.
There’s also the consideration that I don’t really care all that much about it. I really don’t. I used to care if people came and read it. I used to watch the numbers and the statistics to see if the trends were up or down. These days, what was a stream is now a trickle. But I don’t care. Perversely, if someone is coming every week to read this stuff, I tend to think they’re not doing themselves any favours. There will be repetition, of subject matter and certainly of tone. There won’t often be anything earth-shattering or new. Don’t get me wrong, I like it when people come by. A comment or a tick is still a warming thing. But it would be foolish to hang around wishing for them and I certainly don’t.
So… I’m going to stop, right?
But not today.
That’s the thought that has gotten me started in practically every New Year that I’ve been doing this, at that moment when I could so easily leave you. I may very well stop, I tell myself. The reasons for doing so are all sound. Just not today. Today I will spit some half-arsed piece out and get it done. Perhaps it will be unusually self-pitying and indulgent. Never mind that, it will be done.
And then I will plough on and I will start once again to see the benefits of my little regime. How much pleasure I get from assembling a single thought into a coherent piece. How much the collective years of posts build up a mosaic of my mind and my preoccupations like no other thing that exists.
How very good it is for me to be writing.
So, there, week one is done, practically in the can.
And as for next week and all the weeks after that. Well, they will take care of themselves… or they won’t… we’ll just see how it goes. It’s like the man in the song finally concluded:
If ever I would leave you, how could it be in springtime
Knowing how in spring I'm bewitched by you so
Oh, no, not in springtime, summer, winter, or fall
No never could I leave you at all.
Happy New Year.