Change is not always good, not always bad. Sometimes it's just change. My ever-so-slightly chameleon-like nature requires me to change something, anything, about my life at least every three years. Once again, it is impelling me to shake things up and dust things off.
New job? Check. Accomplished in the spring.
New home? Working on it and hope to have it accomplished in the next couple of months.
New city? Someday, someday. Not today, not tomorrow, but not right now.
New outlook on life? Well, funny you should ask . . .
Thus, today we are saying a fond farewell to my old blog, a writing forum that has served me well for a number of years but that has since fallen out of favor with me (and pretty much with everyone, lo is the unpopularity of blogging in this fast-morphing digiscape).
What happened exactly? Was it a bitter divorce or a gradual estrangement? Did Blogtucky cheat on me or did I cheat on it? And did anyone notice? Or care?
Tick the box next to "gradual estrangement." But a few people did care that I stopped writing, which was very flattering indeed.
Just not flattering enough to make me start up again.
I think life happened exactly. When I had less going on in my life (all work, very little play), ye olde literary wanking forum was an enjoyable escape, a satisfying way to share my alleged thoughts and alleged humor with friends far and wide. I had fun writing with regularity and getting feedback from people I knew and even some I didn't, adding a couple of new friends along the way who share my interests and tolerate my half-witticisms.
When I, ahem, changed jobs again in mid-2007 (a very long time ago, it seems), moved to a larger city, and began traveling more for work, I found I had less time for writing and, so it seems now, less time for myself. And, by extension, everyone else around me.
My bad.
It wasn't all travel, although a hell of a lot of it was--and I have 185,000 Visa Points to prove it. There was a French course in Montreal, repeated trips to Montreal, love in Montreal, and, ultimately, not love in Montreal. There was a near-total economic meltdown, political stagnation, and hate speech. There was Facebook, and there was Twitter. Sometimes all together, all at once.
I could still see the humor in some things, but only 140 characters at a time. Other things, other times, I couldn't see the humor at all. And, thus, if I couldn't say anything nice, it was just better to stay at home and scream at the TV.
I didn't figure this all out until I changed jobs again this past spring. Suddenly, I was no longer getting ready to go on a trip/just coming back from a trip/recovering from a trip. Slowly, I became less tired, less braindead. Eventually, a few months later--this week, in fact--I realized that, wow, I might just feel like having a life again.
And writing for me is a part of life. I can't say I do it well or that I even do it often enough. I can't say I've made much of myself as a writer, having only a small portfolio of professional articles, one book chapter, some reviews, a journal (on an obsolete software platform, no less), a handful of half-assed stories, and this blog to my credit. Maybe that will change. Maybe that won't.
I'd like to be known and appreciated for my writing, as I think at times it's as good as anyone else's out there who makes a decent living at humor and opinion. But there is a lot of writing, humor, and opinion out there already. I'm not sure I can make myself heard over that din. It's like trying to ask someone to help you find your keys at a Brazilian soccer match.
And at times I'm not sure I want to. I like my privacy, I want to protect my thin skin, and people who send me messages signed "From a Northern Idaho Patriot" worry me.
But that's a tale for another place and time.
Perhaps on my new blog starting . . . now.
New job? Check. Accomplished in the spring.
New home? Working on it and hope to have it accomplished in the next couple of months.
New city? Someday, someday. Not today, not tomorrow, but not right now.
New outlook on life? Well, funny you should ask . . .
Thus, today we are saying a fond farewell to my old blog, a writing forum that has served me well for a number of years but that has since fallen out of favor with me (and pretty much with everyone, lo is the unpopularity of blogging in this fast-morphing digiscape).
What happened exactly? Was it a bitter divorce or a gradual estrangement? Did Blogtucky cheat on me or did I cheat on it? And did anyone notice? Or care?
Tick the box next to "gradual estrangement." But a few people did care that I stopped writing, which was very flattering indeed.
Just not flattering enough to make me start up again.
I think life happened exactly. When I had less going on in my life (all work, very little play), ye olde literary wanking forum was an enjoyable escape, a satisfying way to share my alleged thoughts and alleged humor with friends far and wide. I had fun writing with regularity and getting feedback from people I knew and even some I didn't, adding a couple of new friends along the way who share my interests and tolerate my half-witticisms.
When I, ahem, changed jobs again in mid-2007 (a very long time ago, it seems), moved to a larger city, and began traveling more for work, I found I had less time for writing and, so it seems now, less time for myself. And, by extension, everyone else around me.
My bad.
It wasn't all travel, although a hell of a lot of it was--and I have 185,000 Visa Points to prove it. There was a French course in Montreal, repeated trips to Montreal, love in Montreal, and, ultimately, not love in Montreal. There was a near-total economic meltdown, political stagnation, and hate speech. There was Facebook, and there was Twitter. Sometimes all together, all at once.
I could still see the humor in some things, but only 140 characters at a time. Other things, other times, I couldn't see the humor at all. And, thus, if I couldn't say anything nice, it was just better to stay at home and scream at the TV.
I didn't figure this all out until I changed jobs again this past spring. Suddenly, I was no longer getting ready to go on a trip/just coming back from a trip/recovering from a trip. Slowly, I became less tired, less braindead. Eventually, a few months later--this week, in fact--I realized that, wow, I might just feel like having a life again.
And writing for me is a part of life. I can't say I do it well or that I even do it often enough. I can't say I've made much of myself as a writer, having only a small portfolio of professional articles, one book chapter, some reviews, a journal (on an obsolete software platform, no less), a handful of half-assed stories, and this blog to my credit. Maybe that will change. Maybe that won't.
I'd like to be known and appreciated for my writing, as I think at times it's as good as anyone else's out there who makes a decent living at humor and opinion. But there is a lot of writing, humor, and opinion out there already. I'm not sure I can make myself heard over that din. It's like trying to ask someone to help you find your keys at a Brazilian soccer match.
And at times I'm not sure I want to. I like my privacy, I want to protect my thin skin, and people who send me messages signed "From a Northern Idaho Patriot" worry me.
But that's a tale for another place and time.
Perhaps on my new blog starting . . . now.
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