I see my blog as a digital time capsule, a virtual "capacious hold-all" as Woolf would say. This passage from her diary is everything to me:
What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful, that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art.
I can't sleep. All I keep saying to myself is: "I miss my dad. I miss my dad. I miss my dad."
I need for there to be a way out. Maybe writing is the only way out for me but it's also a way in.
I write for the fatherless daughters.