I don’t know when I stopped blogging steadily. I could look it up, but I think it was around 2004, when I started to write for a living and got serious with my boyfriend (now husband). I’d started working at Rue Morgue, which you might assume would give me more to blog about, but – as a life blogger – it actually gave me much less. To wit, today I polished off a sidebar to a cover story (which I can’t yet talk about) and stayed late to prep for my cover story interview (which I can’t name) tomorrow morning.
I also started to worry about the much-dreaded sin of name-dropping, even though between Rue Morgue and Burning Effigy my entire life seemed to have horror locked squarely in its trajectory, so it was not really any surprise that I made a few friends in the biz along the way. The fact that it made me feel weird that I felt weird about mentioning them was just too weird to try to wrap my head around. Providing yet another dichotomy for the life blogger I once was.
Then came the third. A partner who doesn’t use the internet to socialize (i.e. has a Facebook page because everyone else does, but only logs in sporadically, or when he can’t reach someone by phone). It went without saying that I would not bring his life (nor the inner workings of our relationship) into the public spotlight, as that’s not the life we chose to lead.
And lastly, I found myself working a job where I was getting the opportunity to develop my craft as a writer – and I was getting to write about the genre I loved, to boot. And if I was writing about it there, there was just no point in writing about it here.
So, simply put, I ran out of stuff to talk about.
As I’m sitting here writing this, I’m wondering if I’m crazy to think that this latest stab at blogging is even remotely a good idea.
I guess some conversations are made to be awkward. And we’ll find out.