For as far back as I can remember, I've loved to write- not just loved to, I have needed to write. In college, when times were hard and I was struggling, and my heart was being broken by some fella, I had two remedies. I bought Symphony bars (we called them "sympathy" bars) and if things were really bad, I'd by myself a nice, new, black pen. Nothing fancy, just something that would write my feelings out in a lovely, serious, black black ink. My notebooks in college were full of brain-drippings, funnelled through my nice black pens.
Since college, I've filled plenty of journals- at times I would write every day, on and on, but at other points, you might see weeks or even months between entries in my journals. But still, and probably forever, whenever I hit crisis and struggle, it's like a physical need- I've got to write. It's almost as if I need to start writing to see what comes out. As that old quote goes, "How do I know what I think until I see what I say?"
So, now comes blogging, and suddenly everything is public and friends keep sending me articles about bloggers who've been drummed out of society for what they've written and now have to live on the river's edge wearing sackcloth. It's hard for me not to let my brain drip onto my keyboard, and out into cyberspace but I do know that it's important to be careful. So, the opposite situation happens- now, when I struggle the most, I step away from the blog because it's too risky to be truthful, too public a place to be private on.
Which is to say, if you don't see me posting much (like lately), it's probably because I have too much to say.