There is some times so much in my head that I want to blog that I cannot force it all out. The sheer assault of words would drown us all. And so I will start, and not finish them, or not know quite where to begin. Phrases. Words. Moments that I want to scoop up and share for ever which languish instead as half ideas, existing only in lists in my head.
There are also those times when the words do come out but end up sitting on my computer, perfectly formed but ultimately unbloggable. These blogs - and in the past 12 months there has been quite a collection - are ones that I have written hard and furious, that I have been compelled to write to complete the story. I periodically return to these, polishing, editing, preparing them for a readership which they may never have. One day, when I am feeling brave and distance has reduced their pull, I hope I will put them here.
The past few weeks have been a combination of both. What might I like to blog if it didn't weigh me down?
I would blog of beer gardens and double vodkas, of vans and police, of sharing chips with Former Soap Star and of being head-butted by a fainting man. There would be something about the bruises and sunburn and getting soaked when filling the water tank. There would be rolling eyes and shushing and the banging of swords. There would be giggles and laughter and things which make no sense but to those involved. The blogs would smell of mulled wine and hot chocolate and have bits of straw stuck to them.
There would be the stench of the boy's dressing room, the crunch of the gravel, the moment of awe I get every night walking through the Abbey. There would be missed cues, mis-pronounced phrases and missing props. There would be Shakespeare's words, a cloak around me, opening out freshly every night.
There would be the things I cannot quite touch on, but which I will talk about at length if you should corner me in real life. A riverside walk, the darkness, wilful destruction.
And the softer things that - if I didn't lock them away - would bother me more. An indistinct figure reading on the grass. A dark blue jumper. How knowingly transitory this whole experience is.
More crunching gravel, a silent smile, a returned newspaper. The intense, delicious, stomach lurching excitement of it all.
It would, of course, not quite live up to the experience. Words, as even Shakespeare himself acknowledges, slip away from us. But it is important that it is here.