Mom recently said to me that she knows something’s wrong if I’m not writing. How telling. True, sure, but nonetheless insightful for its simple clarity.
So yesterday, when my eighth blogging anniversary came and went, I sat on the fence regarding how much I felt like posting about it. Then the day slipped by, a wisp of smoke grasped and lost in the same moment. Which didn’t bother me.
Because for months now my keyboard has looked less like a communication device and more like an impassable desert. I felt daunted as I sat in front of it, unable to resurrect even the most fleeting word combinations from the dark and barren landscape at my fingertips.
Substantial thoughts and ideas, let alone the ability to make them manifest, quickly vanished in the light of day, nothing but morning dew of the mind.
Yet in the sunset of these ruminations dawned a jarring realization. Though the past year has held its share of challenges, some of which I must carry with me beyond this eighth anniversary, part of my worsening blog malaise stemmed from a disturbing truth I have to face: in the past year, I broke my cardinal rule by allowing someone to influence—Nay, not just influence, but rather to control what I blogged, even if indirectly.
Why didn’t I post anything about The Kids last year? Why did my writing degrade into nothing short of mundane documentary, a blow-by-blow, dry, uninspiring mess? Even though the past several months and their inimical ways share part of the blame, here at the beginning of my ninth year at the keyboard, why has blogging become so intimidating, so resented? It all boils down to a boy and how I let him indirectly manage my personal journal.
That idea made me angry. And since anger is more useful than despair, it spurred me forward, urged me back to my roots, forced me to decide resolutely that, like I said five years ago to another friend for the very same reasons, this is my blog, my journal, my home on the web. If you don’t like it, just go away.
While I still have trials to win and obstacles to overcome, that hangup seems to have stuck in my craw for far too long. It feels good to finally cough it up.
And to show my resolve in this matter, here’s a picture of the Shadow, al-Zill.
He’s watching things blow away on the winds of change.
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- Fox squirrel (a.k.a. eastern fox squirrel, stump-eared squirrel, raccoon squirrel or monkey-faced squirrel; Sciurus niger)
- My laptop’s keyboard
- Heavy morning dew on a blade of dallisgrass (a.k.a. water grass or Dallas grass; Paspalum dilatatum)
- An autumn sunset at the family farm deep within the Piney Woods of East Texas
- al-Zill, or sometimes “the Shadow” and “Little Terrorist”