So I'm blogging three or four times a month now. Instead of every day -- or every other, a few times a month I manage to pluck out a few decent words from my brain, shove them down to my fingers and on to the monitor. Not that I don't think about blogging more often, I just don't have much to say. My life has become boring to me. It's work, work, work, come home, eat, read a bit, watch a smidgen of TV, and drop into bed at 9. Day after day. Week after week. I wish it weren't true, but alas ... it is.
On the weekends it's grocery-store time, laundry catch-up, pull a few weeds out of the flower beds, make a decent meal or two, and then ... get ready for Monday morning.
I long for retirement. When I can just write away the hours. It seems when my time is my own, I'm much more productive. Much more creative. Much more fun. I enjoy my house more, my family more, and by all means my writing. More.
Although my job isn't bad, in fact, I like being in the center of town. I got a great boss. And I do get lots of great lines for stories. But a real job can be stifling to the writer. The creative side of the brain slows down. At times, it appears to come to a dead stop. Sometimes I blog because I know if I don't ... it'll be the only thing I write in a few days. Reading keeps me going, but the need to write makes my fingers itch. Then why don't I?
Time. Just when you get a story into high gear, it's time to go back to work.
It's like getting the wind knocked out of your lungs.
Who knows how much longer I can stand it.
Blessings to you and yours.