“Usually, when a man quits writing in his journal, it is either because things are happening to him that he doesn’t want to commit to paper, or because he has lost interest in life. I don’t know which of these reasons applies in my case, but I rather think neither does.” - E. B. White
I’d like to thank those of you who’ve bothered me about my vanishing act in the many ways you’ve chosen to do so: text messages, e-mails, in-person conversation – a veritable barrage of concerns has found me, and it’s reassuring to know I’ve been missed around here.
I should mention that I didn’t intend to stop writing, or to take such a long pause, but it’s happened.
Of course, the name of my little blog suggests discipline (almost), and I didn’t deliberately set out to string you along.
I surely didn’t expect to disappear just a few days after passing the entry number 500 milestone.
Naturally, I felt the typical pangs of guilt about missing a few days.
Then a week went by.
Then I found myself busy with other things – some welcome, and some definitely unwelcome – but, in any case, I didn’t much feel like plunking myself in front of a computer.
Before I knew it, a month had almost passed.
I feel compelled to explain.
The weather’s been beautiful. I’ve waited a long time for summer to show up, and it’s done so in truly wonderful fashion.
It makes writing hard.
I’ve enjoyed being outside so much – living on the deck by the pool; in the front yard under the trees; on the trails in the forest; at the park; at beachside trailers, at lakeside cottages (anywhere and everywhere I’ve been lucky enough to find myself enjoying the weather these days) – that I’ve even been reading again, which, given the amount of spare time I’m afforded, has brought about fewer moments for my motivational experiment.
I do have a few good ideas for writing, and I have some stories I want to share, but I’m just waiting for the blogging bug to bite me again.
In the meantime, I’ll settle (almost happily) for enduring the mosquitoes during their all-too-brief seasonal stay.
“A writer is like a bean plant – he has his little day, and then gets stringy.” - E. B. White