If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. That’s what we all learned growing up, isn’t it? Kind of a keep the peace sort of thing. This is why I tend to keep my mouth shut an awful lot.
If you can’t blog something of quality, don’t blog anything at all. This is the online writing version of that old saying, and where I’ve been for the last several weeks. It’s a large rock, and I’d say it’s like living under one, but it’s more like being dragged underwater to your moist demise. Yes, moist, because that word tends to drive people batshit crazy, and there I go saying something not so nice. Heh.
I’ve started several blog posts the last few weeks, passed on writing for today’s GHF Blog Hop (but you shouldn’t, because it’s on parenting G2e kids on a shoestring), and have been journaling daily for my own sanity. I’ve been struggling with writers block so intense it’s more akin to writers Chicago-rush-hour-ain’t-no-one-gettin’-nowhere. There was no funny, there was nothing of quality, it was all middle-aged angst of what am I going to do with my life and I’m bored with myself and long stretches of fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuckkkkkkkkkkkk. It has not been good, is what I’m saying.
Something finally shifted this morning, I don’t know what. It may be the essential oil I’ve been diffusing all day, it may be that I got great sleep this weekend, it may be that my body finally exhaled and accepted that summer is gone and the golden loveliness of early autumn is here. Who the hell knows. I just know that I’ve been questioning everything and have been miserable. Did I want to stay with my blog? Start a new one? Give up the gifted writing? Give up writing? Find a full-time job? Be patient and grow my flute studio? Slam my head repeatedly in the dying refrigerator? Run away and join the circus? But I did none of the above and just sat with the uncertainty and here I am today, writing, no clown makeup, no headache from the fridge. I think the changing of the seasons and/or hormones and/or the start of a school year and/or generalized depression and anxiety just grabbed me and decided to beat me about the head and neck with a rusty shovel.
It’s been nearly ten years of blogging here, and I do wonder if I have any stories left to share. I can’t tell my sons’ stories as easily anymore, because I value their privacy more and more every day. I don’t really care anymore if something I say is nice, but I do care if it’s of quality. Whining isn’t quality, so I’m limiting that to my journal. I feel I’ve said nearly all I can say about giftedness. So my stories are changing.
It’ll be interesting to see what they say.