One year.

It comes on like an itch. A niggling voice whispering in my ear, "You could do that".

Shyly, almost furtively, I set up an account. Tentatively play around with names, a header. Decide both are shit, close the browser, write it off. No, I can't do it. I can't.

The voice persists. You can. 

I fixate on the name. A blog needs a name. I scribble lists in bed. Score them out on the bus, bludgeoning every tiny, blossoming idea with the blunt force of my insecurities. Stupid. Lame. Been done. 

If I can't think of a name, then I won't have to write anything, and then there is no possibility of it being rubbish.

Of course, a name comes upon me suddenly, uninvited. Sneaks in before I can crush it, and takes root. Now there is nothing left but me and an empty screen. Damn it. 

Guess I'd better write something.

Hitting post for the first time is agony. The second, the third, only slightly less so. I spend so much time carefully crafting these missives to the world but apparently the world isn't interested. The disappointment is immense.  I was right. I can't do it. Nobody is reading.

Until one day, miraculously, somebody is. Soon there are comments, and tweets, and sweet sweet emails, and hey, would you look at that: I'm a blogger.

199 posts, and counting...

I know the whole world isn't reading (although it's surely only a matter of time?), but YOU are. And to you, you who left me that amazing comment, you who bought me that drink that time, you there on the hunt for fake ponytails - especially you - I would like to say thank you. Thank you for this year. It's been kind of a big deal for me.

And thanks, too, to that whispering voice. Turns out I *can* do it. Maybe I ought to listen to you more often.

(I know, I'm gushing. Shut up. It's my party and I'll gush if I want to.)


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