Look, I know I've been phoning it in and I know that you know I've been phoning it in, but what I don't know, really, is why. It's bigger than malaise and smaller than depression. It's not something drawing my interest elsewhere so much as not being interested in much of anything. Seriously, I don't want to do anything. Even reading seems... tiresome. The easiest, best part of my day is just hanging out with the girls hearing about their days at school. A close second is petting my cat for a questionably long time. These are not scenes that lead to grand plans.
With that, I've held off on such honesty here because I didn't know where to go with it. Such sentiments seem to require a statement of some sort. An ending. Or a renewed purpose. Yet I'm not ready to commit to either.
The only decision I've made is not to do the
48 Hour Book Challenge this June. I just... I just don't want to. I'd hoped that the possibility of Book Expo America would wake me up a bit, but I think I'll be skipping that as well.
This sounds melancholy, but it's important to say that while I am struggling with my feelings about blogging and reading and what-to-do-next, I'm happy about other things going on this year. Truly. My daughters have had wonderful successes in theatre, music, and academics. I'm so glad to be working again and within a mile of the school. In my job, I was able to shape the summer reading list for my Fair County, getting some great authors some exposure. Those are good things.
So I'm not sure that there was an essential purpose in writing this, except that I don't like to leave my people hanging - or worse, worrying. Nothing's really wrong, I just don't feel quite right. I'm not sure if in saying this that I'm asking for patience or forgiveness, or maybe just what I've always enjoyed in this community - friendship.
Blog on, friends. Blog on.
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