When people ask me why I stopped blogging, I’m always surprised for a second. “But I am still blogging,” I think.
This is because anytime anything happens to me—a conversation, an observation, a life-changing event—I think to myself, I can’t wait to write about this. Often I actually start writing in my head.
In my mental internet, I blog three days a week with a hefty list of links on Sundays. I went viral a few times. I got picked up by the Huffington Post. How dare you ask me why I stopped blogging?
But when I have the opportunity to sit in front of a blank screen or an open notebook for a luxurious, blog-writing amount of time, nothing comes out.
One day I hope to figure it out. But as I'm writing this, I’ve got an entire afternoon, a hipster coffeeshop (Which is playing, naturally, a surfer punk version of hava nagila), and no one to take care of.
A day like this happens about four times a year: I'm off work, for a holiday I don't necessarily celebrate, but D still has daycare. I'm free, and I only let myself feel guilty about it for three minutes. This is the hardest thing about parenting, I think: succumbing to the fact that I might have five days to myself, tops, for an entire year.
I guess it's worth it, though.