A friend of mine stopped blogging because he felt no one ever read it. Personally, I don't care how many people read or don't read mine. This is me and my silly rants and foibles and follies. I've been amazed when someone actually did comment, either anonymously or with user info, because I can't imagine how they found me, unless it was just through "Next Blog". But I'm flattered that they took the time to read, agree or disagree with me, and then share the experience. When I grow up I'm going to be a writer - which, considering my age, means I'll be the Grandma Moses of the publishing world. But count on it - great things are brewing in my pretty little head, and someday this kettle will boil.
Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
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