‘Where have all the writers gone?!’ she cried, clasping her hands together in despair. Frantically she clicked through the blogosphere, looking for writing.
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.
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