Tonight and yesterday I have found myself empty of words to share with the world, and yet I want to write and tell you about it. A paradox, a conundrum, that I can find words to tell you of having no words.
There is always so much to do, so many errands to run, things to accomplish, children to read to, that sometimes in the quiet moments when the demands are all met and no one needs anything, it is nice to sit and read for myself.
To not worry about the blog that hasn’t had a posting, to not worry about the million other things on the to-do list, to let them all sit for a time while I read.
I know some of you who read this blog, and I imagine what your reactions are while I write, and yet I ignore you, too, and write for myself, and for those of you I don’t know who yet read this blog, and for myself. Always it comes back to myself. If I didn’t write for myself, write what I like, there would be no blog. I read another blogger some time ago, who wrote that someone had told her, “Write as though no one will ever read your blog, and as though everyone will read your blog.” So true, and so hard to accomplish, that tension between the public and the private that makes a well-done blog so fascinating to read.
Some of the old-time writers talked to their readers, as though they could reach through the page and be right there, speaking to the reader. They didn’t maintain the illusion of distance, the image of the printed page as wall. In the spirit of Kipling, good night, Gentle Reader, good night.