Echo Point?

Sometimes I link to this blog on my stalkbook page. Sometimes I link to it from my twitter. Occasionally I will include the longwinded address as my own personal URL. Mostly to increase traffic to this site.

But I don't really know why I am writing it. Writing this blog (as can be seen in the list of how many entries have been  made in the last 6 months) often gets relegated if I am too busy or too brain-fried to find the words. There are umpteen posts written in my brain about books I have read, and films I have seen, and records I  have heard. But getting the fingers to do the tapping before my witty and insightful commentary has evaporated from my brainbox is a dilemma I have been trying to deal with.

And I don't really know who I have got reading it, and whether or not I am writing it to be read, or writing it to see my own words in pixels on the screen, some kind of narcissistic public navel gazing. But I do like to think that there is someone out there reading my whimsy.

So if you do read here occasionally, feel free to share your opinion of my own unsolicited opinion. Feel free to tell me that I am way off the mark in my appraisal of all things Sherlock, or overthinking Harry Potter way too much. Or that my fixation with Mr Darcy and his recurrence in all modern pop culture is purely in my imagination. Or maybe you DO agree that all television, cinema, literature and trash needs to be pulled apart, and my assertions are right on the money? I guess I am looking for an answer to all of this opinion that I am hurling into the gorge of cyber-space, rather than just getting a hollow echo of my own words bouncing back at me.

Here endeth the self-flogging.