I realize I am crawling along in the blogosphere these days. While the words launch and ricochet and ping on other blogs all around me, I am in slow motion, watching my brain creep along before anything gets written down.
Hence, the desert of days between updates.
I know why this is. It’s because I think too much. Ponder and wonder, just like I did when I wrote my weekly column for the local paper. What shall I write?, I’d question until the deadline appeared, stark and empty before my face. At that point, I usually had to just grab something out of thin air. I’d cruise the net for the latest gaffe by W. or try and find some controversy sprouting in the downtown soil of my small town. I’d get it written, but it was painful. More painful, much more, than grabbing the braided rope of inspiration and following it through the snow storm until you find that bright light in the barn.
That’s fun. I want more of that.
During this past week, some of it spent up north in my old home town, I’ve thought of a bunch of things to blog about. But none of them even made it into my notebook. I like to say they’ve all got a bit more fermenting to do, but the real truth is that I’m too busy. There’s just too much to do: pitches to write, trips to plan, contracts to negotiate, hair to tear out, walls to paint, radio to listen to, dishes to wash, hair to brush, dog to pet, husband to hug and all those other things of having a life and living it.
Inspiration is grand. Exciting and fulfilling and the thing that fuels. The trick, I guess, is finding the time to let it live.