We're just not that fond of blogging.
I know I should do it anyway. I should also be working on my children's books--I have several irons in that fire. Those take time and concentration. Whereas, blogging is really quick and easy.
But how can a person think of blogging, when ...
1. The beach, just a few miles away, beckons.
2. The dog, just a nose-hair away, whines.
3. The laundry, downstairs, is piling up.
4. Ditto the dog poop in the yard.
5. There are crossword puzzles, colored pencils and paints, balls of yarn, a sewing machine, several gardens, a rock tumbler (oops, my husband doesn't know about that one), and a collection of musical instruments that includes guitars, violins, flutes, pianos, a mandolin, and a hammered dulcimer (don't ask, it goes back to my Renaissance Faire days).
There are simply not enough hours in the day to give the proper attention to all these things. Time just zips by, like the train that I hear just beyond the highway. It sounds so pleasant as it rumbles past, the bell's gentle clanging reminding me of a folk song from my youth. And I think, "Wow, that was a long damn time ago."
Then I grab the nearest notepad and jot down the following:
Look up Amtrak schedule--check times and fares for trip up the coast.
This note, too, will be lost in the clutter on my desk, along with the one that says, Call the septic guy, and another one that says, Don't forget to do a blog post.
Oh well. Happy summer!
Diane
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