Maybe I really am too old for blogging. It’s a strange medium. I embarked on this adventure with tremendous excitement that I’d share my charmed-life insights and that they would spark charmed-life insights among readers and all would be delightful. I believe that’s happened to a degree. But I don’t really “get” the medium.
It seems to me that blogging is showing the world first drafts. I’m used to writing essays that I pour over, letting them gel for twenty-four hours, and then editing with a red pen. When I think one is approaching good, I read it aloud to be sure the cadence is there. Then I edit again. Then an editor or two or three edit it, as well. This is writing as I understand it. It’s what I Iove and why it makes me proud and happy to get to say, when someone asks, “I’m a writer.”
Today I don’t know what I am. I feel a little bit like a blacksmith, in a profession that is going extinct. It breaks my heart.
I signed a contract that I would blog every weekday. But some days, I have nothing to say. I so value producing writing that is worth reading that it pains me to write when I know that I should be thinking, or walking, or listening to music, or having tea with a friend — feeding my soul so that tomorrow or the next day or one day next week I’ll have something truly worthy to
write.
This is one of those days. I should be thinking, or walking, or listening to music, or having tea in a china cup with a wonderful book and good thoughts as company. It’s late but still light out. There is still time.
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