Once upon a time there was a lonley, sad woman who found that she could ease the loneliness and sadness by writing a diary that could be read by everyone. She felt that she was somehow connected to the world by this and it gave her purpose and hope. To begin with she wrote about her childhood in a strange, exotic and magical land and people liked this and praised her. She took heart from the prasie and began to write honestly about her sadness and loneliniess. Again people responded and she was heartened. She felt that her self imposed ivory tower was not as isolated as she had first thought.
There came a day when she had nothing new to say about herself and so she moved on to other things that interested her or made her think. There seemed to be no heartening response so she tried even harder to regain the magic of those earlly writings but the harder she tried the less response she got. People were bored with the sadness, angry with the opinions and plain uninterested in the rest. It was like looking in the mirror only to see a reflection of nothing. She felt like the Lady of Shalott - that her mirror, her reality was cracked.
This left the woman with a problem: should she stop the writing altogether or should she carry on regardless to please only herself?
Answers please.
PS: It has been noted that in yesterday's blog I made no mention of the kidnapppers - for the record - cowardly bastards who deserved the grenade. My point was that Ms. Norgrove didn't.
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