Twelve Days of Bloglessness

So much for my list of future blogs. Looks like they’ll take a lot longer than a month to get through. Especially when I haven’t managed to write a single post for twelve days.

So here’s where the twelve blogless days of July went:

1. Two days spent in Narre Warren and St Kilda, respectively, with young writers
2. A mediocre effort to get back to the gym after three weeks in the West and trying to reacquaint myself with Melbourne and familiar routines
3. A new term of yoga and remembering what it means to relax
4. Breakfasts, lunches and dinners with a dozen or more varied assortments of young people – both kith and kin
5. A lightning visit to Sydney for Allen & Unwin’s twentieth birthday bash: the frock, the frolicking, the finger food, the speeches, the idle desire to transform myself into a dragon
6. Several hundred emails written and received and countless hours fretting about and talking to folk about the upcoming launches of India Dark
7. Three play dates with the lovely 2-year-old Louis and the reading of many picture books
8. Toy Story III with the great-nephews and the intensely interesting philosophies of four and six year old boys.
9. A blitz on the chaos of my office
10. Pruning the roses and playing in my winter garden
11. Coping with the strange emptiness of my rapidly emptying nest and visiting the new homes of two of the most recently transited younger inhabitants
12. Not writing anything in the least bit creative and pondering my shadowy writerly future. Sigh.

In their own way, each of the above twelve points were things about which I contemplated writing blog posts or journal entries because writing can help you make sense of the most intimidating and contrary experiences. I guess the point of today’s blog post is to illustrate the problem with blogging is not having something to write about but being disciplined enough to decide that today, or on any given day, one must simply write. Decent ideas and coherent strands of thought deserve time and attention. In the end writing is a discipline, not a gift.

Kirsty is an Australian author of books for children and young adults.

“Every adult was once a child and the child inside them never completely disappears.”

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