“Now you’ve written the first few posts, what do you want your blog to look like?”, I’m asked, presented with an attractive layout with a logo title, one large photo (that pans in and out when you hover the mouse over it), some text, smaller photos, captions and a side bar with yet more information that scrolls down independently.
“It looks very professional,” I say, rubbing both eyes vigorously. The only problem is that I’m a bit overloaded by it all and don’t know where to focus. “Can we break for a few minutes?”
Waking after an hour in bed curled around a hot water bottle, it becomes obvious that the writer of a blog shouldn’t really have to factor in ‘recovery time’ each time she logs onto her own website. Time for a rethink.
Ironically, the idea of blogging has eluded me until recently. For years, I wasn’t up to reading an awful lot or concentrating for very long on TV or radio programmes. Finding myself on the page, so to speak, is a bit of a shock, albeit a eureka experience that has been waiting in the wings for an absurdly long time.
A few hours of dipping into other online blogs, searching for simpler layouts, is incredibly informative. There, you find mostly younger people with oodles of confidence, confronting the idea that people with illnesses and disabilities (or with differences generally) should just put up and shut up, or go away. Contrary to shutting themselves away in isolation, they openly describe their feelings, experiences and how they overcame and continue to confront their own set of challenges. No shame, no blame, no bullshit. The relief at their honesty and bravery (anticipating that not all feedback will be positive) is wholly refreshing and offers me a timely ‘kick up the backside’. Until now, I’ve only found it possible to be THIS ‘real’ with my close friends.
Notable by its absence is a particularly eloquent weekly article published in the Saturday Times entitled ‘Spinal Column’. It is effectively a blog written by journalist Melanie Reid, about her life after a spinal cord injury. It is as funny as it is terrifying, giving voice to what it feels like, finding one’s life irrevocably changed by an untimely accident (odd phrase don’t you think, considering that we would never want to describe any serious accident as ‘timely’). It is unfortunately only accessible to read if you have a Times subscription and I’ve been awaiting the publication of a bound version for years now. So to both of you potential readers: please reserve me several copies, in the case that you find them before I do. They are sure to sell out!
