The will to blog, a space cadet’s view

I think I’ve lost the will to blog. It’s taken awhile, as I’ve done it for awhile. But I think it’s happened. I have piles of “drafts” here on WordPress – a few words typed out when I had a Spectacular Idea, but they just sit there, and I don’t ever expand on them or publish them.

I used to blog so frequently that it became habit. I also hit the height of posting when I lived in London and was pretty lonely and didn’t know a lot of people with whom I could dicuss things that interested me. I also fancied myself a reporter of sorts – telling my US friends what it was like to live and work in a different country.

I’m also coming to realize, and accept, how introverted I really am. I can be extroverted for large chunks of time – in fact my job requires it. However, when I’m done with that time, I feel as if I need 5 hours in a room by myself to recover. The same goes for a 2 hour dinner with friends or even 1 hour at a party. Sky calls it my recharging time. I’m cozy enough with him that I can recharge when he’s there, which is very, very good. But blogging? It used to feel like a very introverted thing to do – share my thoughts on my terms when I felt like it, in a rather passive manner. Now (and perhaps this is a result of the long hours I spend with the public, extroverted) even writing saps my energy. Or more accurately, when I’m having fanciful or interesting thoughts, instead of going to the desk to write them down, I find myself lying in bed, thinking them through to conclusion on my own. Then they’re gone.

After watching “Where The While Things Are” I had a lot of thoughts about imagination and its place in my world. I’ve always had an incredibly active imagination – one that was often difficult to reign in and synchronize with reality. I still do. I think that what I think of as recharing and spacing out, is in fact letting my imagination take over. I do love to read, but as Sky and others have observed, much of the time I’m not reading but staring off into space, lost in my own version of the book or story. Same thing happens now when I sit down to write — I become wrapped up in what I’m thinking and I can always think faster than I can type, so the typing stops pretty quickly.

I like to think of myself as an old lady, living alone (dudes tend to die first) and dreaming all day. I’m sure I’ll be bummed when I can’t go on walks or move with agility, but I don’t imagine I’ll be too upset to spend my days in a rocking chair “reading a book” with my eyes shut.