I've been away from blogging for a little while- living. Writing other things.
I miss it though. Maybe it's the writer's need to record, to commit to words what really only has meaning apart from language. Maybe if I could draw or paint, I would have a better time of it- but instead I write.
A week in a log cabin, time at my parents house, Christmas with my girl, a grandfather sick and in pain. A wedding date and venue set. Too much is wonderful, too much is terrible. How to verbalise these things? And yet I need to write.
I started simply- a feature about a lesbian choir starting in Cardiff. A look at the rituals of a shift in ITU. A piece about the log cabin and the nature that surrounds it.
Maybe blogging is too much right now? Maybe all the rage I feel about starting 2012 the same way I started 2011, with a dying grandparent just can't be expressed and so maybe I just need to write about other stuff. Maybe I'll share my work here or maybe I'll try and get some of it published.
I need to earn some money for the wedding. I need to find out if I'm a good enough writer for earning an income that way. I've invested in a course to help me develop and now I just need to find time to study it!
I'll carry on blogging intermittently. I find it by turns therapeutic and exhausting. I think the therapy outweighs the fatigue, so I guess my answer is there. I'm too verbose for the trend to microblogging. I'm too long winded for tweeting. A Facebook status is not the place for an in depth discussion of my feelings, not least because my mother can read it.
Viva la blog. Or something...
