One of my early posts is being highlighted by the lovely Kristin, as part of the AMB blog carnival.

You can read the post here, or you can read all the other talented entries here.

Wait.

Rewind.

Something happens and I stand up and walk away from my computer.

That’s where this story ends.

***

Notice me! Notice me!

We all shout it.

This is the InterWebs and we’re all crying to be noticed, while hiding in our corners, under a blanket. We’re a giant flock of male robins, trying to impress a future mate. We dance and we sing and we flap and somewhere, another bird watches and wonders what the fuck?

Screeching to be noticed, hoping that we’ll find an audience.

It’s sort of interesting.

***

If you scorn a label, only to be noticed and slapped with that label, do you tear it off and walk away?

Or do you preen, happy to have been noticed in the first place.

Which is more important, being noticed? Or your truth.

***

This is my truth:

I steal time away from life in order to write.

Or is it -

I steal time away from writing, in order to live.

I’m not so sure anymore. Everything is tied up in my imagination, in my could’s and possibly’s and maybe’s that I forget that I’m still sitting in front of my computer watching a cursor blink on an empty page.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

My toddler laughs and while I watch, a bird flies – THWAP – into the window.

That is my truth.

***

How long until we hit the glass in here and come up short; left stunned and lying flat on our back.

What on earth hit me?

What on earth did I hit?

***

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Part Two

***

Anna had been in the InterWebs for a few weeks now and she was slowly getting the hang of it. Food was different here and the noise when she was amongst the Mummybloggers was horrendous.

I’m happy here. This is good. This is what I wanted.

However as much as she thought it and repeated it like a mantra, she still wasn’t sure. The happiness was palpable and no one ever seemed to get tired. Anna opened her laptop to check her About Page again. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t stop the thing tarnishing.

Sighing, she lifted her head and looked around.

The garish lights of the InterWebs were everywhere and she thought she could see the flashing .gif banners encroaching on her little bubble. Did it look like they were … alive? No. Surely not. She gave her head a little shake and bent back to her About Page, editing and re-editing the thing.

The Mummybloggers had been so lovely, taking her in and walking her through the Interwebs. She was going to be forever in their debt. They’d explained the importance of a Blogroll and a page for prospective advertisers. She was excited about the idea of making money from her writing.

She finished up her About Page and looked it over – the tarnish had retreated yet again, and Anna was looking crisp and confident.

And while I’m here, I may as well take care of the Blogroll.

Anna didn’t like her Blogroll much. The horrid thing was snappy and nasty, it kept trying to take her fingers off. It didn’t seem to matter what she did to try and contain it, the thing was never happy. Adding links, removing links, it never ended.

Maybe I shouldn’t have removed any links she thought. But no, those blogs were dead! Their owners disappeared back to Reality and I couldn’t really leave their links there, could I?

Nevertheless, the Blogroll snapped at her fingers and snarled as she tried to update it. It always seemed hungry and irritable. She had had other Mummybloggers complain that their links weren’t there and she was starting to get sick of the entire thing.

SNAP!

OUCH. FUCK.

It BIT ME.

The fucking thing BIT me.

Anna suspected that swearing had just undone all the work that she’d done on her About Page, but she didn’t really care. Holding her finger up to the light she looked for blood, before remembering where she was.

InterWebs. Right. You don’t bleed here. Not real blood anyway.

Making up her mind quickly, she sat on her Blogroll and as it fought and twisted away from her, she pressed the Delete button.

A little pop and it was gone.

Phew. All that angst and energy and it’s gone.

She felt lighter already. There had been a lot of complaining about who was and wasn’t on her blogroll and she might have made a few enemies when she couldn’t be bothered wrestling with the thing to add links to it.

Hungry little fucker.

She sucked on her finger and debated fixing her About Page yet again. Anna understood the importance of a good About page, the cynical guide in the beginning had explained it, but really, the tarnish was driving her wild.

As she looked around, someone sidled up behind her and sat down with a flump.

‘Arrgh!’

Anna jumped.

‘Who are you?’

‘Susan.’

Anna was expecting a little more information than that.

‘You scared me.’ She extended her hand. ‘I’m Anna.’

‘Sorry. I’m not normally here on the Mummyblogger side of things.’ Susan twirled a lock of hair, looking a little ashamed. ‘I’m not really welcome here.’

Anna looked her up and down. She looked nice enough.

‘Why is that?’

‘I disagreed with Jennifer once. In the beginning.’

Jennifer was the leader of the Mummybloggers, the bubbly blonde woman who had welcomed Anna in the weeks previously.

Anna gave a wry laugh. ‘I can’t imagine anyone disagreeing with Jennifer.’ Secretly she thought I can’t imagine anyone having the guts to disagree with Jennifer.

‘Oh I did. It was …. well. It wasn’t pretty.’

Anna laughed again. ‘I can imagine.’

Susan looked at her. ‘You don’t look happy.’

Anna sighed. She had been hoping that the recent edits on her About page would have hidden that.

‘I’m not.’

‘Why?’

It all poured out in a rush. ‘My About Page keeps tarnishing, no matter what I do. My Blogroll just BIT me and I deleted it – all that work, gone. The lights here make my head hurt and if I have to listen to someone else rave about how cuuuuuute their kid is I might just puke. Where is the real life? These women, every single thing is perfect and it’s driving me mad, because I’m not perfect too.’

Anna stopped to breath and Susan put her arm around her shoulders.

‘Anna? I know exactly how you feel.’

They looked at each other and burst into giggles.

‘Oh my God, I thought I was the only one. I haven’t sworn for WEEKS and my head hurts from being positive and shiny.’

They laughed harder.

‘Would you like to meet some real women?’

‘God, would I ever?’

‘We’ve got our bad apples too, but we’re all real. I promise.’

‘What do you call yourselves? I was told we needed to know what we were in order to cope here.’

‘We label ourselves Personal Bloggers, but really, we’re just Bloggers. Most of us are Mummyblogger rejects. So we’re probably Mummybloggers too, just not happy happy joy joy Mummybloggers.’

Susan stood and Anna followed suit. ‘Come on’ said Susan ‘We’re not that far away.’

Susan walked off and Anna followed close behind her.

Finally, she was going to meet some real people.

Well.

As real as anything ever got in the InterWebs.

Go see?

***

She wandered out into the InterWebs; the group that she had arrived with disappearing rather fast. She hadn’t expected it and looked up sharply when she found she was alone – well, as alone as a woman could be in the middle of millions of other people.

Walking out into the crowds, she was swept along unnoticed.

Previously, the woman had been small and mousey. The addition of a slightly fabricated About Page had cheered her up and her eyes looked brighter too. Back in Reality, her real self was stuck picking up after children and washing dirty clothes, but here, in the InterWebs, she was free to wander.

‘A Mummyblogger’ she sighed in disgust. ‘I’ve heard such horrid things about Mummybloggers. I don’t want to be one of those.’ She thought about it some more. ‘Maybe I could be a MummyBlogger though. I have read some good ones and they do seem to have such good fun.’

The possiblity of having good fun seemed like a better option than worrying about what nameless people thought of a label stuck to her in any case.

Signs around her pointed the way and she walked forwards, hoping that she was heading towards the Mummybloggers.

Welcome to the InterWebs!! one sign screeched at her; the garish red and yellow lettering hurting her eyes.

In every direction animated looking people shuffled about in groups. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but here didn’t look quite right. The more out of her depth she felt, the more Reality appealed to her. Reality wasn’t scary and bright like this place. The trees had more colour and she wondered why, until her mind clicked – photoshopping. Right.

As she moved through the crowds, they parted like water to let her through and seamlessly closed up behind her. When she hazarded a glance back the way she’d came, she could see that her passing had had no effect on her fellow InterWebbians.

She sighed, and as she grew dejected she lost some of her sparkle. Her About Page grew tarnished and she shrunk down into herself, confidence fading. Up ahead there was a park bench in the middle of the mayhem. There was just enough room for her to sit down if she could just ….

‘Excuse me, excuse me, sir, please, if I could just get through….’

She pushed her way through and sat down with a flomp.

Opening her laptop case, she read through her About Page again, trying to remind herself why she was here.

Mother of two … likes reading and writing …. photography makes me happy …

She wasn’t impressed. Her moments of self doubt had tarnished the bloody thing to high heaven. She sat down to rework it and slowly, she gained her zazzle and confidence back. The tarnish pushed away for now, she looked around and oh! A bubbly blonde woman stood in front of her, talking loudly in a vaguely Southern twang.

‘Hi! How are you? You look new here, is there anything we can do to help, would you like a cup of tea, a biscuit, a sit down, we’ve got a very nice spot over under the tree there and you’re more than welcome to join us?’

She spoke very fast and the previously mousey woman wasn’t sure she’d caught everything.

‘Hello.’

She looked at the bright bubbly woman in front of her and held out her hand.

‘I’m Anna and yes, I’m new here.’

The bubbly woman, who hadn’t stood still for a second yet looked at her outstretched hand and laughed.

‘Oh aren’t you just adorable! We don’t shake hands here honey, we give hugs, here come and get a hug!’

Bending, she hugged Anna until her ribs felt near to bursting.

‘Come on, come over and sit with us. We’ll talk you through everything and you can have a biscuit and a nice cup of tea. Would you like me to carry anything? Come now, watch him, don’t trip over, he’s a tech blogger and they don’t like to be interrupted, never mind her, she’s not sure what she’s here for and him, we’ll he’s nice enough, although you haven’t heard the rumours yet have you? Never mind, come along.’

Anna felt like she was drowning in a sea of words and she clung to her hand as they marched across the open space to where a group of women sat around with laptops. The noise as she reached them was overwhelming, but she resolved to enjoy herself. After all, she didn’t have to stay, did she.

Her guide dragged her forwards and stood her in front of the group.

‘Girls! Girls! I’ve found a new one!’

‘Oh fantastic’ ‘I wonder where she came from’ ‘I hope she’ll like me’ ‘A new one, yay!’ ‘Oh no, another one, really? Don’t you think we have enough?’

The voices murmured around her and she stood and smiled, hoping that her faked confidence wasn’t having any effect on her newly edited About Page.

Slowly a spot cleared for her and hands reached out, helping to settle her into her spot.

‘I hope she’s comfortable’ ‘She looks nice’ ‘I wish I’d found her’ the murmuring continued.

‘Girls! For goodness sakes, give her a moment to collect a thought!’

The women moved back slightly and Anna breathed deeply as someone pressed a cup of tea into her hand. She took a sip and then exhaled.

‘Oh this is lovely.’

For all the pressing in and the noise, she found the company excellent. Much better than the jaded tour guide in the beginning . All these women wanting to know her. The community. That was the word. Even though it felt a little restrictive, she thought she could be happy here.

She looked around and her eyes had gained some brightness.

‘Hello and thank you for the lovely welcome. My name is Anna and I’m going to be a Mummyblogger!’

The voices bubbled around her and the women, they swept her in and held her in their depths, congratulating her on her choice.

In the back of her mind though, she wasn’t sure that she was going to fit in here. But that small part of her brain was slowly being squashed by the nature of the InterWebs and the women surrounding her. The candy sweetness and the joyful light surrounding everyone, that was addictive.

As she looked over her checklist, a shy woman held out her hand.

‘Welcome Anna. Welcome to the InterWebs.’

She didn’t hear the sinister undertone as all the women repeated it. She was just happy to be here.

***

Part Three Here

Outside, the world streaked past, faster than you’d expect, but slower than they wanted it to.

In the front of the carriage a bored tour guide stood up and turned to them.

‘And here we leave the last vestiges of Reality. If you look out of your windows, you can see it trickling away.’ She started to look less bored and more peppy.

‘Right!’

She had cheered up immeasurably, obviously Reality bored her. ‘We’re nearly there. Do you have your checklists?’

‘Yes.’ they all chimed back at her.

The colour streaked back into the tour guide’s face and slowly she became prettier and curvier too. The lack of Reality suited her.

‘Let’s go through the checklist now. Do you all have your About Pages?’

A hand streaked into the air and a small mousey woman began to speak.

‘I don’t have an About Page. I’d really just prefer people didn’t know who I was…’ she trailed off as the tour guide glared at her.

‘You need an About Page.’

‘But -’

‘You need an About Page.’ she turned to the entire carriage and swept her arms wide.’You all need About Pages. Do you know why?’

They didn’t know why, but no one was game to say so.

The tour guide sighed. ‘Look out there! Go on, look!’

They peered out of the windows, the carriage had slowed now. Outside were thousands of people, absorbing information from every venue. They looked … animated.

‘Those people, they don’t care about you.’ the tour guide boomed. ‘They have no idea who you are and frankly, they don’t give a shit. You could be the next Christ and they wouldn’t give a fuck. Not without an About Page.’

‘But I want to be anonymous. I don’t want -’

The tour guide cut her off again.

‘Lady, everyone is anonymous here. No one cares who you are in Reality, this is the InterWebs. You can be whoever you like. Just for Gods sake, write yourself an About Page. Fictionalise it, anything, but you will not survive without one. People will look at you and if they don’t know who you are in the InterWebs, they will slide right past. Short attention spans you see.’

‘Oh.’

‘It’s nothing personal.’

The mousey woman bent to her laptop and started typing. Slowly she grew brighter and a little taller too. Her eyes sparkled and she looked less mousey.

The tour guide reiterated ‘You can be anyone here. No one cares.’

With a flurry of heads they all bent to their About Pages and updated themselves; the change in the mousey woman spurring them on. By the time the train drew into the station, they were all shining with confidence.

‘Okay’ said the tour guide. ‘Sorting time.’

‘Sorting?’ someone asked.

‘Yes, sorting. You have to know where you fit into the InterWebs don’t you? Otherwise you’ll get nowhere and I’ll have to take you back to Reality.’

‘Oh.’

They shuffled nervously, no one wanted to be sorted.

‘Right, you. What do you write about?’

‘Ummm, my children mostly -’

‘MUMMYblogger. Go and stand over there.’

‘But I’m not a MUMMYblogger…’

‘You write about your children, right?’

‘Yes…’

‘And occasionally you’ll post recipes. You dabble in photography and sometimes your photos work and sometimes they don’t, but you post them anyway. You’ll accept money to review products and you will enjoy the free stuff.’

‘Ummmm -’

‘You sound like a MUMMYblogger. Don’t worry, the InterWeb has thousands of them. You’ll find plenty of people that you like. Hell, you might even write a book and wouldn’t that be just what Reality needs?’

The tour guide sounded cynical.

‘What do you write about?’

‘Technology and stuff.’

‘You’re in for Tech then.’

‘Xbox Games’

‘Oh, another gamer. Exactly what we needed’

‘The state of the InterWebs’

She sighed. ‘Geek. Another one.’

‘Fashion and Reality Stars’

‘Really? That’s who you are?’

He nodded.

‘Right. Perez Hilton wannabe’

Slowly they were sorted, whether they liked it or not.

The tour guide stood and looked at her little group. ‘These niches aren’t all defining. You’re not stuck there forever, it’s just where you’ll be happiest. You may branch out, you can write about anything. The InterWebs isn’t like Reality, there are no rules here.’

They nodded impatiently, wanting to leave the too small carriage as fast as possible.

‘Can we go now?’ the Perez Hilton wannabe asked.

‘As soon as we go over the last of the checklists. You’ve got About Pages? And Content? You also need a Contact Page, otherwise no one will be able to find you.’

They checked their files and nodded again.

‘Right, you’re good to go then. Remember, some of you will find Sponsors and some of you won’t. It would be wise to create a BlogRoll once you find a group you like. Have a walk around your niche and see how it feels. If you find you dislike it here, the train leaves once an hour to take you back to Reality. We don’t advise you leave and return often though.’

She looked around at her newest group. They were exactly like the last group and the next group would be exactly like these ones. The InterWebs didn’t promote originality in its overall use, just in its content.

She bent her head to her clipboard and then looked up.

‘Disclaimers: You need to listen and then sign and then you can disappear. Agreed?’

She looked at them while they murmured their assent.

‘The InterWebs will not be held responisble for anything you do here. Your will is still your own and your decisions and the consequences thereof will be held by you in your entirety. While it is advised you stick to your niche, you are under no obligation to do so. Anyone caught stealing content will be evicted back to Reality. Do you agree to this?’

They agreed and one by one, they stepped forward to add their mark to the document.

The tour guide stepped back and watched them leave. Bending her head she checked her watch and boarded the train back to Reality again. Another group would be through in an hour.

They always were.

***

See Part Two Here

They also asked permission to use my photo of Amy and I got photographers credit.

Click on the image to enlarge it and read the article. You may have to click on it a second time, to maximise it.

And here is Nancy on her first outing to the ZOO! See her ribbon? Isn’t she cute! one blog screamed at her.

‘Are you a writer?’ she said hopefully.

The blog scoffed at her. ‘No! I am a MOMMYblogger. Hear me ROAR.’

Hastily she skipped away before the poison pen could destroy her.

Then! I spilled red wine ALL over the carpet and OMG I was SO UPSET. BUT! Now, there are these awesome…

‘Are you a writer?’ she asked timidly, a little scared now from her MOMMYblogger experience, but still hopeful.

‘How dare you!’ screeched the second blog, now a little stained with red wine. ‘Compare ME? To a penniless writer? Of course I’m not a writer! I’m a reviewer. Do you need anything reviewed? I can do it, you just need to send it to me, along with a second sample for me to give away…’

Frantically she pressed her back button, only to be faced with the MOMMYblogger again.

Home! Home! Home! Three times she clicked her home button and luckily, her home page loaded quickly. The relative safety of Google sat looking at her.

One last try she thought. Or maybe two. Surely there are writers out there somewhere?

A third time she clicked.

I’m so lonely. She read. So lonely. The baby isn’t any company and I’m stuck at home all day changing nappies. Didn’t I used to be a human being too? Worthy? Now who am I…

Carefully she asked ‘Are you a writer?’

The blog looked at her sadly. ‘No. I am not a writer. I am merely journaling my days as a mother, so that when my daughter has children she can read it. I am not a writer.’

Sad now, the woman clicked away.

One last try she thought.

And there I stood, surrounded by emptiness, thoughts running through my head…

‘Excuse me.’ she said. ‘But I couldn’t help noticing you. Are you a writer!’

‘Of course I am!’ the blog scoffed. Then carefully ‘why?’

‘Well because I would like to be a writer too.’

The blog clapped it’s hands. ‘OH GOOD! We need more writers here in the blogosphere. Come with me. I’ll show you how to be a writer.’

The woman followed the blog, up hill and down dale, through Google and back out the other side. Finally, they stood in front of a small house. The blog walked up to the door and knocked. The door opened.

‘Oh! It’s you. Come in, come in. Who have you brought? Never mind. We need all the writers we can get.’

The woman followed the two blogs through the house, until they came to a room filled with tiny little people. A baby gate on the door kept them inside. The noise was deafening, nearly a hundred little people clamouring to be heard over one another.

The blog looked at the woman.

‘Take out your writer.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Your writer. Take it out!’

The woman didn’t understand. She wanted to be a writer, not get rid of her writer.

‘I don’t understand.’

The blog sighed. ‘Your inner writer. Take it out.’

‘But I don’t know how.’

The blog looked at her sharply. ‘You don’t know how?’

‘No.’

‘Reach into your soul. Inside you will find a little writer. Pull it out. This is the only way to becoming one of us.’

The woman did. Reaching into her soul, she felt around until she could feel her little writer. Tugging, she pulled.

It hurt. Oh how it hurt, but she pulled anyway. If this was the only way, then she was determined to do it too. She felt something inside her give and carefully, she extracted a tiny little caricature of herself.

The blog gasped. ‘Oh the poor little dear! Look at how sick she is. You’ve been neglecting her!’

The woman was taken aback. ‘No I haven’t. I’ve been trying to be a writer.’

‘Oh but you’ve been doing it all wrong and look how badly you’ve messed it up. It’s going to take weeks before you can write anything of your own.’

The woman looked at her little writer sadly.

‘Now, give her to the Nanny.’

‘What?!’

‘Give your writer to the Nanny! She will look after her for you until she is strong and well.’

Carefully, the woman handed her writer over to the Nanny. The Nanny bustled away with the writer curled in her hands.

‘Come and have a cup of tea’ the blog said.

The woman felt empty inside now but she agreed. Seating herself, she peppered the blog with questions.

‘Can I visit?’

‘No. Not for a while. Your writer needs time alone, without you bothering it. It needs to be with other writers.’

‘But I can’t leave her alone! She needs me. It was hard enough to hand her over to the Nanny and walk away. You can’t expect me to go away and not visit.’ Tears streamed down her face. The emptiness inside grew bigger and bigger.

‘What she needs is a group of other writers to play with. She needs our group exercises and to build her trust in writing again. Don’t worry, she will be safe and supported here. We will keep her healthy and strong. We won’t let anyone criticise her.’

The woman sniffed, still not convinced this was the only way to becoming a writer.

‘What do you do here?’

‘Oh everything.’ the blog announced. ‘We do group exercises, we allow your writer to stretch her wings without any criticism, we foster trust and we teach your writer how to network.’

‘But what about the technical skills of writing? Do you teach those?’

‘Of course not!’ the blog scoffed. ‘Who needs technical skills when there is a group of supportive writers to watch your back?’

‘I thought you were going to teach her how to be a writer!’

‘We are. Don’t fuss your pretty little head. When she comes back to you, she will be able to write.’

‘Will it be any good though? The writing?’

The blog looked at the woman, hard. ‘Good is subjective though, isn’t it. As long as the other writers think she is good, she will be fine.’

‘You said there were group exercises. What are they?’

‘We give out a topic and all the writers are expected to write on that topic. Then we run around and read everyone’s writing and make sure that the writers have done it properly, to our standards.’

‘I think I read some of those, a few weeks back. They all sounded the same.’

The woman sipped at her cup of tea and looked at the blog. Her advertising had started to flash a little faster now with all these questions.

‘Good. That’s how they know they’re doing it right.’

‘But I don’t want my writer to sound like other writers.’

‘I’m sorry. This is the only way to become a writer and not be merely a blogger.’ The blog’s advertising flashed dangerously now.

The woman finished the last of her tea and stood up.

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can be part of this. I want to be my own writer, not be part of your giant writer.’

The blog looked shocked. ‘Without us, you’ll be just a blogger!’

The woman thought about it. ‘I think I can handle that.’ She walked across the hall to the room filled with other people’s writers. In the corner, her’s sat huddled alone. Stepping over the gate, she rushed over to it and picked it up.

‘Poor little pet’ she murmured. ‘I’m sorry, I should have left you how you were. You don’t want to sound like everyone else, do you.’ Her writer shook her head sadly.

The woman stepped back over the gate, careful not to crush anyone else’s writer. Stepping lightly now, she left the house with the writers and the blogs clamouring after her.

‘The cheek! To think she can get along without us!’

She smiled before tucking her writer back into her soul. Her empty feeling dissipated and she could almost feel her writer snuggle back down.

Ideas rushed into her head as she made her way home again and she thought about paragraphs she could write when she got home. She knew now where all the writers had gone and she didn’t want to be one of them.

A faint cry of ‘You’re doing it ALL WRONG!’ floated to her ears.

She didn’t care. Right or wrong, she was doing this her way.

No one else mattered.

I live in Tasmania, at the bottom of Australia. I’ve done posts about Tasmania (with photos!) before on my other blog if you’re interested.

I’m about 50 minutes drive from Hobart, the capital city. Being Tassie though, that leaves me in the middle of nowhere. I’ve got farmland on three sides of me and a road on the fourth side, with more farmland across the road. Last year my neighbouring paddocks held sheep and the occasional herd of cows.

I suppose I am in the middle of a tiny little township, there is a pub [a bad pub. food is shocking, I've seen inside their kitchen] and maybe half a dozen houses within a kilometre radius.

Last year I took photos of sheep. Lots and lots of sheep.

This year however, I’m surrounded by a sea of Opium poppies.

Yay me.

I’ve also got abandoned houses to photograph.

And creeks where bushrangers used to swim. Author Nan Chauncy lived here and now, it is named after her. Chauncy Vale.

We don’t get very much snow where I am living at the moment. The occasional dusting on the surrounding hills is about it.

You can’t see the mountain from where I live, but Mt Wellington is gorgeous. I could happily live underneath it (again – we used to live in the city, underneath the mountain) if it wasn’t for the damp and the cold. Also snow. I don’t do well with cold and wet.

I take a lot of photos from the car. Sorry about that.

I don’t go into Hobart very often anymore, as I don’t drive. I miss being within walking distance of the city.

A few months ago, it flooded here. Rained and rained and rained. I’m fairly sure that the underneath of my house has only just started to dry out. My grey water system and the back corner of my paddock still hasn’t recovered.

[This is not the back corner of my paddock. This is the river, breaking it's banks and flooding my neigbouring paddock.]

I’m almost tempted to nip over and pinch one of the pine trees for our Christmas tree this year. Do you think the farm manager would notice a missing tree? Then again, that is part of the poppy paddock. It’s probably wise not to venture into that one this year.

Tasmania has a lot (A LOT) of spiders. Snakes too. All our snakes are poisonous so I do my utmost to avoid any and all snakes. It didn’t stop a snake scaring the shit out of me a few times a week when I was a kid though. There are also lots of insects.

We’ve also got echidnas. Aren’t they cute?

And Blue Tongue Lizards.

Pretty architecture too.

So really, all you’ve learnt from this foray into my corner of the world is that I live in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a sea of poppies.

We get good sunsets though. I’m not complaining.

Eventually it will become full. I’ll walk in here and hear a familiar babble of sounds. My fingers on the keyboard and my voice echoing quietly throughout. I’ll tell stories and maybe someone will stop by to listen to me, to read what I’ve got to say. I’m not sure how that makes me feel anymore.

It used to be, once upon a time I blogged for myself, but also for my audience. I updated my blog often with amusing anecdotes and stories about the children. Journalling myself for them later.

Now I find myself needing something for myself. To move away from my blog persona of Sleepless Nights and move towards myself, Veronica Foale.

It scares me a little, putting my name out onto the Internet for anyone to find. Before this I enjoyed a thin veneer of anonymity. As my veneer grew ever thinner, my frustrations with the limits of my space there grew.

I want somewhere, just for me.

People say, write about whatever you want to write about, we’ll still read. Go silent, we’ll be here when you come back. Cry, we’ll hold your hand.

It’s not as easy as all that though. Sleepless Nights, while not well known on the Internet, is well known within my family and in-laws alike. Sometimes I wonder how they see me, that blog persona who was very similar but also very different to who they saw in real life. Do they wonder where I hide my words when they’re with me? I hope not.

I’m a writer. I need to write. I’m driven to write. I’ve got so many words burbling about inside of me, begging to be let free that I need to open the tap and let them out sometimes.

I like Sleepless Nights.

I also like Veronica Foale.

And until I can work out how to mesh the two of them together, they’ll remain separate.

I think I’m going to enjoy this.