This is the third time I have set up a blog. I have no recollection whatsoever of what the others were called, or if I ever posted on them. But this time I have a purpose, and so perhaps a chance not only of remembering the title but also of actually posting a few times.
That purpose is the entirely selfish need to get myself writing again.
I was a freelance art critic for almost 8 years, and in that time completed a PhD in Art History. That was a lot of writing. Then in July 2009 my life changed forever with the birth of my first son Sam. We were living out of town at the time, and the process of commuting in to town, seeing exhibitions, wrangling a baby and somehow still having anything to write about by the time I got home was not exactly conducive to the flow of my creative juices. The reviews fell off in frequency and by early 2010 the flow, which had become a trickle, finally became a sad dry reminder of former inspiration.
I was diagnosed with post-natal depression just before Easter 2010 and the art crits were just another thing in the seemingly limitless collection of tasks I felt guilty about not doing - along with keeping the house clean enough, giving enough love and attention, and reading enough books, to Sam, keeping in good enough shape, let alone turning chapters of my thesis into publishable articles. Overwhelmed and uninspired, I just stopped going to exhibitions and gave up even trying to write about them.
I've barely written since.
Just last month we welcomed our beautiful 2nd son Josey into the world. 3 weeks before his birth I interviewed for my job as part-time art curator at the local uni, and a week and half later got a phone call from my boss informing me that I had been out-CV-ed by another applicant who had been offered my position and that she would confirm whether or not this other person had taken it and whether or not I could continue in the role by mid-June.
Mid-June rolled around, and rather than a courtesy call from my boss, the shutdown of my email account, and an article in the Canberra Times singing the praises of my replacement, confirmed that I was officially unemployed.
Gutted, humiliated, angry, disappointed, but also in a funny way relieved. I hadn't enjoyed the job for a long time, and suddenly the world looked full of possibility again.
Which brings me to this blog.
I need to write. Writing is one of my favourite things to do and I feel as if the joy of it has been snatched away over the past few years, starting with the cruel comments of one of my PhD examiners who found my prose 'almost unreadable' and culminating in the disabling dread of knowing I needed to write but finding it impossible to do so from the depths of depression. I need to redeem the act of writing for myself. And the only way to do that is to start writing, and to do it every day. I don't know if anyone will read this blog, and it honestly doesn't matter to me if they do. But I will be popping by at least once a day to put out into the ether my thoughts on politics, television, movies, coffee, life, motherhood, whatever comes to mind.
At least a paragraph a day, this is my challenge to me.
