Schrödinger’s Blog

I’m tapping my phone screen on the sofa, a mild May breeze coming through the window. I’m doodling in my writing app. Not serious, head down, writing. Doodling. Jotting ideas down. Seeing what sticks.

I’m the Schrödinger’s Cat of blogging. If I write a new post but nobody knows I did, does the post exist? Did I even write it?

Same question most bloggers have, right? Doesn’t matter. I like writing. I like blogging. So fuck it, keep doing it. Not for readers and likes. But for the joy of writing—

Hang fucking on. “The joy of writing”? That sounds dodgy to me. Too poetic and writerly. Joy my arse.

Graft. That’s a good word. Pain. Yeah. I mean, I do like to write. But that’s because my mind makes me. I’m one of those lucky souls, me. I get bossed by a brain that slides sideways. Tells me things at 2am. Gives me the itch to write when I’m knackered.

That means the word joy isn’t right.

But, that’s fine, see? Because treating it as work? That’s fair enough. It is work. But the kind of work that makes a difference. You write a new scene for the novel. A new blog post, whatever, right? You wrote it. That’s what matters. Shite or not? Doesn’t matter. Not straight away. The point is, you wrote it.

The whole Schrödinger’s Blog thing? Yeah, sure. Having readers is nice. It’s sound when you know people are reading. But, drum roll… you’ve got to write the bugger first.

It’s funny how it works. Knowing that you got the words down is like mowing the lawn. Or tidying out a cupboard. One of those little wins in life.

I’ve got a new doodle on this mild May evening. But now? I reckon with spit and polish, it’s a new post.

Schrödinger’s Cat can do one. If you wrote it, publish it. Go on, never mind the cat.