I have been neglecting this blog rather shamefully of late.
It’s not for lack of trying… it just seems rather unfair to inflict my melancholy on an unsuspecting internet public.
I read in a column today that a writer’s urge to spill words is inescapable (Lezlie Lowe’s column in the Chronicle Herald today was a good one). It got me thinking. It’s true, I think. The writer writes… but sometimes those words don’t make it to paper (or, increasingly, the computer screen). That doesn’t mean she is not writing. I find lately I’ve been writing only in my head. The thoughts seem too personal to make tangible. Sometimes the thoughts we think should be fleeting and not made real by pen and paper.
Doris Lessing said that writers are always in their books, quite nakedly. Perhaps that’s what I am afraid of. I’ve let this blog strip me in ways I would never do in conversation, even with my closest friends. Now, perhaps I feel it is asking too much.
I write, in part, to make sense of my world. Often an unfinished thought finds polish through the act of writing. But, if that is how I make sense, what do I do when the world is insensible?
I guess what I am trying to say is that I may not be blogging much for a time. I don’t feel it fair to share too much of a very personal family journey, especially when the act of writing may no longer bring any comfort. I know there are many other topics to occupy my writing muscles but it seems a pretense to write about other things when cancer is dominating my thoughts.
I don’t know what the next months will bring. Perhaps my grief will bring me back to the blog, perhaps my thoughts will stay in my head. I only know there is little sense to be had in my world right now and words no longer seem to bring comfort.