After a full school year of schedules, activities, and zipping hither and yon, I honestly believed that summer would bring me respite, a break from the frantic pace.
I honestly believed that this summer, I would finally get serious about my writing.
My hope was so large that I went so far as to create a dedicated writer's workspace in a corner of my basement. It still looks much the same as it did in that post, if a bit more cluttered with tiny Legos and little books that Huck wrote, colored, and stapled for me on his endless supply of index cards ($0.44/100 at Target).
At least someone in this family can claim the title of Author.
But something happened along the way to my plans of great work. The very fact of summer happened, days that begin at six and end around nine. Days that I filled initially with fun activities, day trips, and dedicated reading time for my older two devolved slowly into lazy and endless afternoons at the pool or the park or *gasp* in front of the d-a-m-n TV* when the rain fell by bucketfuls.
And me? My lofty goals?
They devolved, too, though I did start strong. I started with intent and that same desire to write still pounds in every fiber of my being. But I get weary, oh so weary, during these summer months. How my homeschooling friends manage day in and day out, I cannot fathom.
My pages-a-day goal dwindled and faded but I can't blame it all on summer and the days that stretch on and on and on.
The simple truth is that blogging is killing my writing.
Late one night this weekend I told Knute - with no whining or weeping or self-pity, just with a sense of utter calm - that I couldn't juggle it all.
He looked at me and said, No one expects you to, Mare.
Ah, but there's the rub. I expect me to.
Since I attended BlogHer in Chicago - and even a bit before then - blogging and social media in general have taken on a business tone in my mind. And while there can be no doubt that the business of blogging, when done well and with great dedication, can be successful and meaningful, I still am not sure where I fit in that paradigm.
If blogging becomes my business, if I throw myself at it with full intent, then where, oh where, will I find time for writing?
But then I flip that tarnished coin of despair over and ask myself this: if I throw myself at writing with full intent, will I ever succeed?
I scroll through the Post page of my Blogger Dashboard and wince as I consider the sheer number of posts I have written here, the days and months, and - come November - years I have spent chattering about my life. It doubles, that sense of time passing and rare bits of moments lost, when I peer over at the work I have done here.
I love blogging and I love what doors have been opened to me through social media. And the friendships I've forged with smart, engaged, and pioneering women through comments, tweets, and meetups are amazing. Being part of such group is enough to keep my fingers tapping across the keys.
But I am deep in thought as I approach birthday number thirty-six. I'm no wrinkled crone but my twenties are long gone and my thirties are now whizzing by as well.
Time stops for no one, blogger or writer.
*The kids know my feelings about the idiot box; yes, I spell that one out on occasion in fits of pique.