In this never-ending lull of nothingness, boredom, restlessness, concern for the future all brought on by this
Wuhan Coronavirus, I keep thinking I want to "bleed" from my blog -- quoting Hemingway -- but my brain won't fire. My heart is hogging the power.
Reading, I can do. Writing, I stall.
I'm reading Lisa Scottoline right now, "Killer Smile." I love her writing style. This book was borrowed from my neighbor (while libraries and book stores remained closed), and it's not one of her best, but I'm hanging in there. One thing about Scottoline, she never fizzles when it comes to humor. Her books are brilliantly punctuated with her uniquely comical wisecracks. That alone is entertaining and keeps me afloat to the end.
I stumble upon Blogger this morning and my mind goes blank. I say to myself, well, I could start with my reading list. Maybe I'll get inspired. I'll release. But then it occurs to me -- as it did this morning when looking on Pinterest for a recipe -- that I don't want to wade through endless rivers of endorsements or piles of propaganda and rhetoric to get to the core, the good stuff, the reason I'm there: To read a blog post. To check a recipe.
To wade and wade and painfully wade, as a page loads and reloads with the pop-up CRAP -- AIN'T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT, she said.
But then I confess. I'm not a professional blogger. I am not interested in getting paid for words I put to paper -- or to screen? I just come here to purge. To clear my cache.
I'm a novice blogger.
I'm novice at a lot of things. A neophyte.
Scrittrice amatoriale.
And lately I lack consistency. Is ANYTHING consistent anymore? Uh, NO! I've shamefully morphed into a sloth.
Is there a vaccine for that?
