Lighthouse

I've not been a great book reader of late, just not enough time. I do like some of the 'two page' stories or reviews that are published in the newspapers, particularly The Mail. It's not the paper I would buy out of choice, a little too far to the right for me, but seeing how it's passed on to me a day late, I do look out for things of interest.

One article that caught my eye this week was in the Saturday colour supplement. Titled as 'The original desperate housewife', it was about a diarist, Ada Reece, who kept a diary during the later part of the 1800's, almost up to her death in her 90's, during the 1960's. She was not only writing a diary about her life, she was writing social history.

She was reasonably well off, had four children, married to a doctor, although it was something of a love less relationship, and she felt inadequate, somewhat unfulfilled in her life. Sound familiar?

The words which particularly stood out in my mind were taken from her notes of 7th March 1911. She was writing about her resolution to write every night, and was concerned about what, and how much she was writing. Her words "......I decided that so voluminous a record of trivialities was unprofitable... I write for my own edification... I write as to The Friend of my Soul, that ideal human who understands. With him I need not pretend to be better than I am..."

True words then, true words of a blogger now.