I haven’t written anything here in a while. It’s fun to see how much has changed. The predictive text has gotten much better –not good enough to figure out what I actually say, but pretty good.

I got this blog ages ago, had fine ideas and then did nothing. Things got in the way. I got in the way. Nothing much was accomplished.

But I’ve been thinking a lot about writing lately. I think that me writing or not writing has always come down to who it is I want to write for.

I write a lot, not as much as when the newspaper was paying better, but still quite a bit. Some of it I get paid for, but not everything gets shared.

I keep a journal or keep journals. The journals are burn books. They’re places I go to write about whatever happens to be sticking in my craw. Usually, I’m complaining about all the things I think we all complain about behind the rest of the world’s back.

I bitch about work. I gripe about my supposed enemies, my alleged friends and my actual family.

I complain to ink and paper about being lonesome or weary or angry. I fret about money and the future.

The books last until they become too toxic to hold, when I finally become sick of them and then I toss the journal in the trash. I set them in the fire. I get rid of the evidence.

So, I don’t need to write about that kind of thing here, but I still love an audience. I want to write and I’m mulling things over.

This place is as good as any to do that and besides, the room is paid for.