First the days pass and then weeks. You blink and three months of water flow under your blog’s bridge without a new post.
Do I care? Does anyone else? Do people read blogs anymore?
And anyway, I tell myself, I like my last post. It was for my mother for her 70th birthday. I like my mother. So I let the words I wrote for her rest there a bit.
For more than a bit.
Valentine’s Day lands on a Tuesday. Love is a subject worth discussing, or at least maybe the “Hallmark Holiday” aspect of February 14th. But my dear friend is recovering from surgery, so I cook her lasagna instead of writing a new post.
By March I begin to worry. Two months is too long for a blog to be dormant. But what would I even write about now? My family? My friends? My life as an author? Grammar tips? Who the hell am I?
After seven years of sporadic blogging, I succumb to a crises of niche. Ludicrous, but still okay, because I’m focused on a new fiction project. And writing a blog post is different than writing a novel, isn’t it?
My voice changes. The pace changes. The tense and POV change. When I try to do both at the same time, the waters get muddy. Or the words. The words get muddy.
So I plug onward determined to finish my project in April. A worthy goal. And achievable.
Until too much tragedy builds up around me, both little by little and all at once. In the lives of my loved ones. In the world at large.
My fiction brain derails and I can’t seem to reenter the headspace — or the heartspace — to craft the drama of a novel. There’s enough real drama and pain and heartache. I just can’t do it.
I make no progress on my Work in Progress (which is problematic for obvious reasons) and I continue to neglect my blog.
And when three months pass without a new blog post, you start to feel (I feel? We all feel?) the pressure to come back with a bang!
I want to write something meaningful, poignant, important.
Who the hell do you think you are?
I could’ve written a blog post about it already. And yet I freeze, afraid that whatever I write won’t be wonderful enough. That it won’t be big or important or contemplative.
That it won’t be worthy.
Kim shrugs. “What if you just wrote it? Just do it.”
Here I am, two weeks and four days later, just doing it.
Three months and seven days after my last post.
Today is my dog Bella’s 12 birthday.
And my heart is aching for some people I love.
And I have hope things will get better.
And some things might not get better.
And the world seems as if it has perhaps gone insane.
And we just do it anyway.
We just do.