This is a bit like that WHSmith notebook I had in 1990. They did a line of A4 refill pads, each with a great British author on the cover. I chose Virginia Woolf, not because I was a burgeoning feminist even back then, but because she was prettier than Charles Dickens.
I never wrote a word in it. I was crippled by anxiety. What would I fill that first blank page with? Should I use a pen (and risk having to tear out a page) or a pencil (and have to embark on another great rubber search, because those pesky blighters are never handy)? And how in the name of Orlando would I live up to the woman on the cover? Ok - so I may have been a little tough on myself. I was only 8.
Still, this is a bit like that terrible time. There are a lot of stellar copywritten blogs, written by copywriters like and also very unlike me. They're funny and topical and real. I fear I won't be any of these things. But then I remember – no one's going to read it. Huzzah! And as if by magic, my first navel-gazing blog post is complete: that painful white page filled.
Phew.
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