It's Tuesday, confession time. Tonight, I'm coming clean. I've been hiding out in the book blogosphere. Like another blogger, I'm confessing that I've been neglecting other parts of myself and my excuse has been I'm too busy book blogging. Well, I am busy blogging but I don't have to be.
This blog says books and other passions but for too long, my other passions have cooled; no, they are shivering on the back burners. A reader came by recently and wrote he missed my poetry. Me, too. I miss watching foreign films with subtitles and listening to music. I miss writing whatever spills out and then playing with the words and line lengths and sounds.
Another friend wrote about reading more deeply this year and I immediately thought, This year I want to write more deeply. I want to publish more than notes and fill-in-the-blank templates that while they are convenient and they do serve a purpose, they don't reveal the ongoing, incessant chatter inside my head.
I want to write about how I feel about the economy, raising a teen, how it feels to be middle age and having to remind myself I'm middle age and what that means including those nagging questions and fears of what it means to be at this stage in my life.
I want to tell my story. I'm not an accomplished poet and I'm no great storyteller but I do like the sound of my voice. I do like to laugh and to be sensual in print. I am pleased when someone reads my nonsense and nods or smiles.
I think March, Women's History Month, is a good time to rediscover me.
And that's all she wrote for now.