And The New York Times Said Blog Is Dead
"I see you wrote a post," said my wife as I entered the bedroom.
"Finally," I said. "It's been over a month and I finally felt enough of something to put it out there. I doubt anyone will get it. I don't think I get it."
"It's good to practice," she said.
Practice? What the hell, woman. I'm a professional writer. I don't practice.
But I should.
I hear it makes perfect.
She spent a few minutes trying to explain what she meant, but I was already playing the ancient game of sudoku on my iPhone - that might be irony, and I didn't really care.
And I didn't care about the post. That's not to say that I didn't care when I wrote it- I needed that release. I had tangents in my head, and then they were published and my mind could rest a little. They needed to get out, random as they were, and it felt good to do it. I don't miss them at all.
But I'm over blogging. You may have realized this by the fact that I haven't been doing it.
Sure, I've been blogging professionally - it pays the bills and it allows me opportunities I would never have in a more traditional occupation. I'm far from over that.
But it's a job now. I work long, long hours doing what I used to do for fun and now when I want a break the last place I want to turn to is blogging. I play with the kids. I stare into space. I sleep on my floor.
That is why I walked away. This is why I returned: I need a place to clear my head and you're standing in it.