On a recent trip to Utah I took a boatload of bad photographs and only a handful of decent ones. This is my favorite: a small pine tree clinging to the rim of Bryce Canyon.
I’m beginning to wonder what I’m doing writing a blog. It seems I’m writing only for myself and for one other person, who actually reads and occasionally comments on this stuff (thanks, Dan). The blog brought me back to writing again, of a creative type I’d never done. I had no idea I would be so open about my life, but that’s how it’s turned out. For the first three months I felt good every time I published a long piece, especially if I was able to bring humor into the equation. I believed I was doing solid work. I had no particular expectations about gaining followers and no particular ambition in this regard. Everybody writes.
But I don’t seem to be connecting with anybody. Blogging may not be the best activity for a depressed person who’s chafing against isolation. The potential for feeling more alone is too high. So I’m going to rethink this. I have ideas for a couple more posts. If I can pull them off, maybe I’ll keep going. Maybe I’ve just hit a bad patch. But one thing is certain: if this becomes an exercise in bathos or just serves to keep me living in the past, I need to abandon it. If I don’t recognize it myself, I’m counting on someone, somewhere, to let me know that I’m being self-indulgent. I feel I’m getting dangerously close to that.