Sometimes I write a post and worry that it doesn’t have much to do with writing, books or reading, which was the reason I started a blog in the first place.
I’ll find myself staring at a post about the colour pink, or fruit, wondering if should hit the “publish” button or simply trash it, wondering if I’ve gone completely off the track again.
My excuse was life. How can I write about writing, when my heart is broken? Or how can I write about writing when I’m so excited about an epiphany I just experienced about decisions? Cold Melbourne life had me posting about desert islands. I had a few weeks happily distracting myself in the search for the mystery editor (at least that kind of was on the literary track}.
But ultimately, I guess writers record life. It’s our job. We can’t help but get tangled up in the mess of life and then feel compelled to express it in some way. We make sense of the world through our words, or at least try to.
And who knows, perhaps life is making us better writers.
I’d like to think so.
[I love reading your blogs. Thank you to the ones who stay on track. Thank you to the ones who wander off.]