Pleas

How many times recently have I started to post something and then been held up? I couldn't say. I try to write a review and the words won't come, or at least I am unable to structure the ones that do. I start to put something in my journal, and I am interrupted four words in. I have anecdotes to relate, I have ideas in need of development, I have to be thinking of something all day and every day.

When I think about it I realize that the people who read this blog mostly care about what I have to say. They like seeing pictures of the baby. They are at least mildly curious about how my mind works, if only as a psychological study.

It is fearful, in a way, to think that sometimes I have nothing to say, if only because I am the sort of person who needs to have things to say. If I cannot let myself think for several minutes every day, then who the hell am I?--though I don't consider that the appropriate use of a curse, it is there because so much of my identity is tied up in what I can be persuaded about the quality of my intellect. And if I cannot write, how can I continue to believe that I can think.

The books that I read wash over me--some of the ideas in them absorb, but if I cannot put them into words or practice, what good are they? Sometimes I read only because I have to in order to live. That is why reading becomes more important than mopping the kitchen floor. That is why writing becomes water--bringer of life.