[She sneaks up on the blog. Eyelids straining ever more widely open, like she's trying to see better. Futile, that: it's pitch dark. Bug eyed. Her heart is just a'pounding. Great, now she's fresh out of spit. She's thinking twice...]
Well, if Dolly Parton can sing "Stairway to Heaven". (Playing on my local NPR Saturday morning station. It's pretty. Acoustic banjo, she whisper-sings ala Dolly, "And the forest will echo with laughter.")
Lower those expectations. If I'm going to write this blog, it's got to change. I've overscheduled myself into a deep dark corner. I've made friends in blogland. People I care about. Writing a blog isn't about only the time it takes to write; it's about visiting and commenting on other blogs. That takes hours. Literal hours.
I ain't got 'em anymore.
And there's that Temptress, Facebook. I can check in and check my friends out in minutes. The bitch.
When I started this blog, it was meant to entertain. Those of you that sent me notes in the months this blog lay fallow, saying kind things and encouraging me to write - that meant a lot to me. Thank you.
I got stuck. Tired and stuck. Not that I wasn't doing fun stuff. I just ran out of oomph to write about it.
And here's the truth: I need to write about my sister who died of ovarian cancer, and I haven't been able to. And since I haven't been able to write that, I just haven't been able to write.
I'll do that. And Mama Pajama and Fat Charlie and Sam's mom Jessie in Maryland are going to be 13 years old on the 29th. I'm just not promising to be entertaining anymore. I'm going to write for myself. I also can't promise to visit everyone else's blog. I'll be that kind of blogger, yuck.
I need to write the way I need to breathe.
hug your hounds
Sometimes the Poets Say It Best, Again
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