The Therapy Diaries Chapter 1: Introduction

Here we go. Blog attempt number whatever, two hundred and forty six? Something like that. “This one will be different,” he tells himself. “I’ll actually stick at this one, I’ll write and post a blog each week, regularly – I won’t just do it three times and then quit.”

Time will tell.

I’m not going to blog about anything in particular. This isn’t a book review blog, or a film review one. I’ll talk about books and films, TV, anything else, but that’s just the point; this blog is just a blog. I’m going to try and write 1,000 words each week and post them here, on my website. I don’t expect anyone to read it. I honestly don’t care either way if anyone ever does. Consider it therapy, really. A therapist, many years ago, told me to write. So that’s what I’m going to do.

(I mean, I’ve been writing my whole life, but almost exclusively fiction. Let’s see what happens when I do a brain dump each week, write some sort of bastardised diary and then post it online. What even is privacy any more?)

I had the idea to start this last night whilst I was in bed. Thursday 4th November 2021. I’d been out for Thai food for tea with my fiancée; I had yellow curry that was spicier than I anticipated, but was still lovely. Came home, fiancée went in the bath and I played on my PS5. Eventually I went to bed, hours later than would have been sensible, and it was whilst I was lying there, feigning sleep whilst waiting to actually fall asleep, that I had this grand idea.

“What you should do,” I told myself, with a spark of inspiration only around eight trillion people have had before, “is write a blog. Just do it. You’ve been reading a lot of Joan Didion of late, and as the kind of person with little imagination who basically just steals ideas, write like her.”

I’d love to be someone like Joan Didion; imagine people actually being interested in what comes out of your mouth, the words that you put on a page that aren’t stories, are just musings. Imagine people giving a shit. Mental.

And so I’m just going to write. I’ve probably written that already, but it bears repeating. And if I have mentioned it already, it leads me nicely into point two: I’m not going to edit. Because fuck it, I can’t be arsed. Editing is vital, don’t get me wrong; but this is an idiot blog written by an idiot man, and so who really, really cares? A rhetorical question obviously, although I could answer by saying: I don’t care, and as it’s my blog, that’s all that matters. In the universe this blog exists in, I am god. I make the rules, I set the boundaries. There is no free will, only because there are no wills to be free. There’s just me, my writing, and the page. Slash website. It’s difficult to talk about writing now, because when was the last time anyone actually wrote? But typing doesn’t have the same ring to it. “I’m a typist.” Ok cool. Bye.

I wonder how much this reeks of self interest and pompousness. I also don’t care. If you’re reading this – you’re not, no one is – you’re on my website. My site, my rules. Within limits obviously, there’s not going to be child porn or snuff or whatever. Just books. Well, my book. And this stupid, pointless blog.

Self-indulgent is the phrase I was looking for in the previous paragraph. This blog reeks of self-indulgence. But again, so what?

That’s basically life now isn’t it, narcissism? I mean, well it always has been I suppose, but with the rise of social media, in particular Instagram, no one tries to hide it any more. Face face face tits holiday. Look at me, look at how good I have it. Suck it everyone else.

Don’t post about unhappiness. Never post about unhappiness. The world runs on image, no matter how flawed and –

Moving on – I had to take a break there because my cat came in and demanded attention. She yells her little head off whenever she enters the house, absolutely announces her presence. Which is fine by me, because it gives me an excuse to stop what I’m doing, no matter what it is I’m doing, and go and give her attention. And that’s perhaps the most important thing, is spending time with the cat. She’s 18 months old, a tortoise-shell called Sylvia. Yes she is named after Sylvia Plath, yes that is a good indicator of how pretentious I am.

There are a lot of pictures of her in Insta: feel free to go and have a look, there’s a link in the nav bar of this site. At least there should be. If not, I’m sure you’ll find my Insta, we all know how to digitally find each other these days.

I’m over 800 words so should begin to bring this to a close. I’ll do so by talking about John Steinbeck, another book of whose I began reading yesterday. I’m currently reading Cannery Row; I’ve read five of his books previously, and plan to read them all.

The man was a genius. He understood the world in a way that few do, and could so perfectly explain it in his books, the world is a worse place for his having died. I mean, he was born in 1902 so obviously he’s dead. I remember reading Grapes of Wrath, and it made me very sad. It’s an incredibly book, epic really, but also devastating in how true it still is, nearly 100 years after it was written. I think it was published in 1930, so perhaps it’s 91 years old now. And not a single word of it is a lie.

Capitalism will be the end of this planet, and the end of the human race. Let’s support Elon Musk in his quest to reach Mars, and then let’s leave him there to die alone.

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