I’ve just read a few blogs and articles on writing. One of the bloggers I read talked about how writing isn’t what it used to be. Now it seems to be a popularity contest. And I agree.
I don’t write very consistently anymore because there doesn’t seem to be a reason for it. I mean I write for me but I enjoy writing for others as well. I like the feedback, the connection.
Most of my writing friends are either no longer writing or no longer in touch. My husband understands but doesn’t get it. I miss having friends to talk shop with and bounce ideas around.
I was surprised to see that I had 22 people following my blog. This may not seem like much to anyone else but to me it means a lot. I just don’t know what to do with me and my writing anymore. So I try to keep plugging along on here.
I have my Facebook account and lots of friends there who check in daily to see what I’m up to. But somehow having a blog is different. It’s more serious. I’m putting myself out there in a writing community not just some social media.
I’m holding on to the tattered blanket of my dreams. Poor thing is very ratty and has countless holes. The silk has even worn off the edges. I am constantly trying to patch it and keep it from being too chewed up. Every once in a while I even find a tiny piece if silk I can rub my fingers on.
Guess I’ll just keep putting on those patches and keep plugging away at my writing.
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