I, who love the blog.
I am worried about this, because it feels like the thin end of the wedge to losing writing altogether.
If I can't drum up a little sentence or ten to write on a daily or every-other-daily basis, what then?
For blogging stood in as a proxy for writing proper. Kept me at it. Was in the near vicinity of other writing. Poetry, if you must know.
Today, I could have written about: the birth of a new grandson (yesterday). A funeral (today). A movie (The Town). A pile of new books. My Moleskine collection in which I can never quite locate the relevant notes I took at that one meeting. The farmer's market. The new/old Rock Band version my youngest son found. Having a grandson over while his folks were at the hospital with his new youngest brother. The pressing need to locate new restaurants to frequent.
There was a time when any one of those could have been a blog post.
I just feel the need to say it: some little writing space is closing off in my life, I don't like it, it actually makes me feel a little cold inside.
I'm going to find a way back in. I think I need to.
. . . and out.