The thing I’ve noticed about blogging and writing, in my case—is pain. I get my best soul-searching, authentically rich, writing material when my emotions are operating in high gear. Anger and sadness, in particular, running hot enough to start a rash under my collar, tend to be fruitful.
I’ve noticed of late that I’ve been writing less often and more haphazardly. At first I thought this was due to the time commitment required by the publication of my forthcoming book—a phrase I’ve been using with annoying frequency (even though I am quite proud of the fact that a book will be forthcoming). It does require my time, but not so much of it that I would be unable to blog as well.
So—if it’s not my emotional state, or my forthcoming book, what is it? Am I losing interest? Is it difficult to find something worthwhile to write about? Have I become distracted? Have I lost my groove or my niche? I’m not sure, although all are possibilities. My life is changing, in facets as complex and varied as prism glints of light. While what I wrote about and will continue to write about is still enormously important to me, I am morphing an old skin and becoming comfy in a new one.
Much of me remains the same. There are values, personality traits, my loud and distinct belly laugh. But much has changed. The experience of losing my parents, the empty-nesting of my babies, the world anew and awash in color, design, and person. It is an ongoing process and has been so for the past many decades. I am led to a better place, yet my pattern of change-resistance is usually my initial reaction. But only initial.
My desire to write has not left me. It may morph in content, context, where I choose to be mindful and how often I want to share, but it has not faded. Therefore, it remains a mystery—and an interesting one—to see what will pull, push and motivate me enough to make me want to write. It is a mystery I look forward to as I let go of the need to appear in control, and view the world with innocence and wisdom, from many angles.