A fellow blogger told me the other day that she couldn't see the point of blogging when you feel you are just talking to yourself.
It got me thinking and I thought about how few followers I have both here and there. And how I get even fewer comments on each post.
Yet I still continue to blog. I blog the ups and downs right here. Of life. Of living. Of carving out a writing dream in a world where blogging has made everyone a writer. Over there I blog my creative pursuits. My failed ventures. My Wins. My art, crafts and dreams.
Last week I finished a crochet blanket. It took me 2 years from buying the magazine with the pattern to hooking together the final squares. 199 squares crocheted through the heat of summer and the cold dark depths of winter (hee hee!!) Along the journey I blogged my progress on the blanket. I have photographed small squares by themselves and stacked high. Squares laid out in pattern. Wonky squares where there may (or may not) have been a beer in the background. This blanket now lies across my daughters bed and the story of how that blanket came to be has been journalled and photographed in small snippets over it's long journey and will now be forever remembered thanks to my blog.
A small moment of history, a small piece of me shared with the world.
It doesn't matter that I am a small blogger with but a handful of faithful followers and commenters. It doesn't matter that my little 5cm square meant nothing in those readers' day to day lives.
What does matter is my small 5cm square that grew and grew to become a glorious and colourful blanket made up of 199 small squares and that journey has now been recorded for my daughter and it tells a little about me. The person I am today.
So often we lose the essence of who a person was until it is far too late.
That is why I blog.