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Saturday, March 4th

March 4, 2017

I think I may have to pack this in.

When I started out last November, this was an exercise to see if I could get myself into the habit of writing something – anything – every morning for at least 15 minutes. I decided, for reasons I’m coming to regret, that I would keep a record (proof) of my success in getting the job done by posting that morning’s effort on my website. I naively thought that would be semi-secret. I figured the only time anyone actually went to my website was if I posted a link to one of my rants on Facebook, forgetting that a handful of people were actually following the site and would be notified when anything I wrote was posted. I also didn’t mind the possibility that complete strangers, who, like me, were grappling with depression, might stumble across it. They might find it helpful. That was fine.

What I didn’t anticipate was friends ringing me to discuss an entry or, as has happened this week, people walking up to me in the village to discuss something I’d said in the black dog diary. That is not the deal. It feels as if a compact has been broken. It feels as if I’m in a play and members of the audience have decided to ignore the fourth wall to come up on stage and engage me in a conversation about how the story is unfolding. It’s just bloody wrong.

This is not how the deal works. There’s a Comments section after each entry. I’m happy for people to leave comments. I positively encourage it. I wish some of the complete strangers who’ve started following the blog would leave a comment. I’d love to know what they think, why they’ve started following me. And it is lovely when friends do. (Thank you, Mariam, for your comment yesterday.) If you’ve got something to say about what I’ve written, leave a comment. I don’t even mind getting emails about diary entries from friends who don’t want what they have to say posted publicly. That is just fine. But do not bloody phone me and do not start bloody talking to me face to face about it. Bad fucking form.

I would have thought that was obvious, but apparently I was wrong. It’s bloody depressing.

And now, to cheer myself up (and because I’m running out) I’m going to the kitchen to make granola. Two words (“make granola”) I honestly could never have imagined myself saying until an island mate shared her recipe with me a few months ago.

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