In Which I Compare Writing to Coffee

It’s been several weeks since I’ve sat down to type anything out here. I took a break, and when I came back to the web, I found that I didn’t want to occupy this space here anymore.

I wanted something new, something fresh, something that would blow people’s minds.

Imagine my shock when my husband said no! No? No.

Instead of starting over, I’ve been percolating. I’ve been thinking through this blog, why I have it, what state I’ve brought it to. I’ve let the words and the ideas sit and soak, not willing to filter them out just yet. And I’ve thought long and hard about just giving it all up.

But. I can’t. I’m a writer, through and through. I write when I can’t think. I write when I can. I write to clear my mind, to state the thoughts that lie in a dormant part of my mind, to wake up myself to my own ideas and beliefs. I can’t quit writing. I’ve tried.

No, blogging is not writing in its simplest form. It’s sharing words with others. And it’s scary when not many read them. Like any other art, if someone else isn’t buying into it, the thought creeps in that what the artist creates isn’t important. That it never was.

I’m slowly learning that, yes,  it is. All of it is.

No, it may not change the lives of hundreds of people. It may not encourage the next great author or poet or painter. These words may never live on. But they will live.

And if I create something that makes a difference in my life, it’s worth it.

Slowly, I’ll start letting the percolated brew drip down into this space. Be careful: it’s concentrated.


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