Haven’t been posting. Haven’t wanted to. For the first time in going on 750 posts, I haven’t had anything to say.

Why, then, waste space posting about not posting?

I wish I knew.

Been writing. Plenty of that. Spent the entire past weekend churning out thoughts, with varying degrees of success. But the blog? Not such an urgency, somehow.

Same old back-and-forth…we write to be read, we’d write no matter what. Both are true. The music is the music is the music.

But sometimes, it seems, it is music for our ears only.

What does one expect, if one is not out there actively promoting that music? Can we (as I e-mentioned to friend Jo the other night) blame the universe for forgetting that we’re here if fail to remind it?

We face our shortcomings. But we don’t release them. We pout about our inability to find our readers; we refuse to mention it to friends whose patience we have tested again and again. We pine for a champion; we wish that someone would take the burden of self-promotion away from us, to let us do the thing we were born to do—aren’t we working hard enough already?

It is only a very short step from self-awareness to self-pity…no more than an instant’s thought between continuing the endless uphill trudge and sitting down in the middle of the road like a beaten mule.

Will she continue to write? Of course she will. Will she have days like this, weeks? Also of course. And will this self-indulgent, readerless space go away from time to time? Probably. Like a lost hiker, stranded in an inner cold, we conserve our heat and our strength. If we’re considering wallowing in our own whiney sense of under-appreciation…well, that’s nobody’s concern but our own. Isn’t it?

That we need to get over it…that we need to soldier on…that goes without saying. Like the empty spaces where blog posts used to be.

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