I don’t know what it is about me and blogging…I’ll go along telling the whole world about my life and then I forget/get lost/get bored/feel burned out/know that no one is reading this and just stop doing it.
It’s a shame.
Really, I am much better than this. Or perhaps I am not.
I sometimes worry that I am not a true lover of writing. I read so many biographies of writers that could do nothing BUT write. Letters by the bushel, journals by the roomful, and stories, stories, stories. They find purpose and release in any sort of writing, not just the kind that leads to publication. They eat, drink, and breathe the medium. Going so far as to take jobs in the journalism field just to be near their beloved words.
I am not like that. Words and I have torrid little love affairs. Hot, intense things full of dark rooms and isolation that lead my fiancée to wonder where I have run off. We see one another after a long absence and instantly fall into one another’s arms…but we are willing to part, more than willing, when the shine wears away after a few weeks.
This is not the enduring love my parents have (50 year strong this year, thank you). This is the thing I had with that hot guy with the Mohawk.
There are days I worry, that I am a dilettante at best. Then again, memories of hot Mohawk guy can still make me smile (and blush).
Perhaps it isn’t all bad. 🙂