Including this one, 2,060 entries.
Because I was so prolific in the first few years, I’m still averaging nearly a post every other day.
Chronicling my 21st year seems like such a long time ago, but I still remember sitting on that ratty blue couch in the living room. It was sweltering in that house. We had an undersized window unit in that living room. It was already kinda dirty when we moved in. The wiring was faulty to the point I’m surprised it never burst into flames.
But it was our house.
At the same time, it feels like only yesterday. But that couch is long gone. The new owner has been struggling to renovate that wreck of a house. This blog is still here.
I just haven’t been ridiculous lately. I can’t remember the last time I jumped in my car and visited a random small town. I can’t remember the last time I jumped in my car and showed up at someone’s house just because. Oh wait, that was in February.
I mean, it doesn’t happen all the time anymore. Most weeks, I get up, go to work, go home, cook dinner and then putter around the apartment until bedtime.
Things are changing still, but it’s more gradual than it once was.
My head is still full of ideas but I still cling to the idea that a journalist is objective. Although it is great to sit back while people are foaming at the mouth about the outrage du jour.
But, at the same time, my writing overall has dried up. Sure, I write for a living, but I can’t remember the last time I banged out a short story. My drive to work on my novel died with LSWV. It’s so easy to blame my lack of writing on my laptop dying in 2013, but I can’t ignore the correlation.
The overall issue is that I promised myself the novel would be the culmination of all the stories I set in that particular universe and I don’t want to reverse that decision. But I want to write. I need to write. Something. Anything. I need to get back into it.
This dozen years can’t be all for naught.
Rules are meant to broken. Especially if they’re your own.