Discouragement. And hope. In equal measure.

I have been watching my blog stats fall inexplicably over the past few months. Plummet might be a better word. From high triple digits daily to a double-digit doldrums. A bit discouraging, that. More than a bit.

I took Skydiaries’ precipitous growth as a hopeful sign—even though the numbers were so good that I feared some cyber-anomaly was at work. Been getting more and more subscribers (thank you, thank you) almost daily. But.

Wise blog-friends like Alexander Zoltai advise me to look away from the stats; to look through the numbers to find what new core friends have found their way here. I keep waiting for WordPress Fresh Pressed to discover me. It ain’t happening.

What is it, then, that keeps writers going? Does the tree in the forest make a sound if it falls unwitnessed? Am I just a boring, uninspired, uninspiring writer after all? (And, no, I’m not asking those questions with any expectation or desire that they will be answered…so please don’t try.)

All these questions would be easier to deal with if I weren’t where I am in the book right now: out in the middle of the universe—literally. In the writing-into-the-silence place days lose their meaning. The silence itself is uncomfortably echo-y. I feel, somehow, as if I’ve become a wraith…that I’ve passed away in the night and yet I continue to make noises that the world no longer hears.

One wonders where the love is. The love that feeds the mitosis of creativity and grows from it. One wonders how to keep it alive.

Worlds turn. That’s what they do. Even inner ones. Tomorrow will be different from today—hell, even today might still be different from today. For now, I’ve just got to keep reminding myself to find the fire. Even if the fire is currently playing a rather cruel game of hide and seek with me.

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