Not Writing Enough

I got a Christmas card from my old friend Vera Bestgen, who follows this blog all the way from Hamburg, Germany. She said I’m not writing enough. She doesn’t just mean I’m not writing to her enough. I’m not writing in CUL-DE-SAC enough. She’s right of course.

I started this blog in October of 2009, after a took a class that taught me to use the blogging software WordPress. My first post was the story of my first trip to Disneyland at the age of 49. Since then I’ve written about Germany and the year I spent with Vera and her family as a high school kid. I’ve written about my daughter’s first communion. The list goes on. Seven years worth.

I’m a professional journalist and I learned a long time ago that I didn’t have the time or inclination to write a successful blog. Maybe I don’t really get it… this blogging business.

What I write is essentially a diary. I love to write, and when I open my laptop and pour myself a whiskey on the rocks I get great satisfaction describing things and summing up my thoughts on a topic, even when I know I may be the only person that’ll read it.

A lot of what we know about the past comes from written correspondence. And the care people used to take with the letters they wrote is not seen in the volumes of electronic correspondence today. Historians are bummed. But maybe blogs like this are the same thing as the letters of the old days. Maybe what I’m doing is writing letters to myself and, naturally, to anyone else who cares to read them online.

I’ve gotten way off the point of not writing enough.

But I’ll write more and I’ll try to keep them interesting. The last thing I wrote about was my dog that died. Since then we’ve gotten two new ones. Here they are.dogs

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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