La Petite Anglaise
Petite Anglaise: why I've turned the page on blogging
Her frank blog about life in Paris propelled her to fame and a book deal, but now Petite Anglaise - aka Catherine Sanderson - has decided to stop telling all on the internet.
When I began blogging under the pseudonym ‘petite anglaise’ in 2004, I had no inkling of what I was getting myself into. It wasn’t even my intention to write an online diary: the first few entries were impersonal, fish-out-of-water accounts of life as a Brit in Paris.
Slowly, however, discontent with many aspects of my life – the crumbling relationship with my workaholic partner, my pedestrian secretarial job, the struggle to reconcile full-time work with new motherhood – seeped out onto the screen in chocolate-brown font. The more I vented my spleen, the more my words seemed to strike a chord with the growing army of faceless readers who visited my blog every day. And although my writing could never accurately be described as ‘racy’ (a favourite adjective of journalists who obviously never took the time to read more than a couple of posts), I did document my brief infidelity and subsequent separation from my daughter’s father, striving for emotional honesty and often daring to portray myself in a less than favourable light. By the time my employer discovered my online activity two years later and unceremoniously sacked me, I was ‘famous’ enough in blogging circles for the story to start a media feeding frenzy.
Five years down the line, much in my life has changed. I took my ex-employer to a French employment tribunal, winning damages for unfair dismissal. I signed a contract with Penguin and began writing full-time. The memoir I published – under my own name - about my experience of blogging was translated into a dozen languages. My debut novel – French Kissing – hit the shelves a month ago.
But the inclination to blog about my life has been on the wane for some time. At first, I chalked my declining enthusiasm up to the fact that I was now writing for a living. Surely it was normal to want to do something else in my spare time? But I’ve been on hiatus, book-wise, since the spring, and the desire to express myself online didn’t miraculously return. The truth obviously lay elsewhere.
Illumination came in the form of an an article I read a month or so ago about Liz Jones, a newspaper columnist who shares every aspect of her personal life, often apparently showing scant regard for the feelings or right to privacy of the partners/lovers/neighbours she exploits in her quest for material. It left an unpleasant taste in my mouth, even though I don’t think I ever went that far. Protecting the identities of those I wrote about was always at the forefront of my mind and, indeed, when I wrote my memoir, everyone mentioned had to read it and sign off on it, pre-publication.
Once I’d stepped out from behind my pseudonym, however, no-holds-barred personal blogging was fraught with new dangers. Some subject matters might be a potential source of embarrassment to my family. Even anecdotes about my daughter’s first days at pre-school might ruffle the feathers of her classmates’ parents. And when I embarked on a new relationship, with the man who was to become my husband, I made a conscious decision to keep our private life out of the spotlight. Instead of airing our dirty laundry on the internet, wouldn’t it be healthier to discuss things en tête-à-tête? With so much material off-limits, it was inevitable that I’d gradually running out of things to write about.
So when my publisher asked me whether I’d pen a host of first person articles to coincide with the launch of my novel, I wasn’t at all keen. By choosing to write fiction, I’d taken a deliberate step away from tell-all, first person writing. Admittedly, some of the subject matter might have seemed familiar to regular readers of petite anglaise – single motherhood, expat life in Paris, dabbling with online dating – but every scene and every last shred of dialogue was invented. I’d found it more enjoyable, making use of some of my experiences in a different context, once removed from my own life. Plugging the book by divulging intimate details about my personal life, à la Liz Jones, felt like a huge leap backwards. I realised I simply wasn’t willing to do it any more.
And so it was that I decided to write a final farewell blog post this week, explaining to my readers that while I’d found writing my online diary incredibly cathartic during a short, pivotal period of my life and will always be grateful for the doors which petite anglaise opened for me, it’s now time for me to move on.
Not that I’ll be erasing my online presence altogether. My blog archives will remain online for readers of my books to dip into at their leisure. When my six-year-old daughter says something funny or disturbing – such as the other day, when she confessed she rather likes the taste of her own crottes de nez – I’ll post a 140-character snippet on Twitter or update my Facebook page instead, activities which should satisfy any residual cravings for a spot of online banter or virtual interaction. And no doubt I’ll upload a photo of our new baby, a month (or less) from now.
But, as far as personal blogging is concerned, I’ve turned the page. And it feels surprisingly good
source: telegraph
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