It's me again, world...

Here I am, taking one more stab at making a go of a blog.  I've tried a few times, but for some reason I just can't seem to stick with it.  I forget about it.  I don't make time to actually write something and post it.  I don't have the discipline it takes to be a serious writer, I guess.  I've got ideas, things to say, and opinions out the kazoo, but I never seem to get out of the starting gate on onto the track.  "Maybe this time..."



I like to write, and have been doing it in one form or another for years, but blogging is a new element to me.  The idea that someone out there in cyberspace is reading this gives me pause.  Do I have what it takes to make this interesting to someone else?  What can I and/or should I say?  How much of myself do I reveal to that unseen audience?  What do I write about?  What interests me or strikes me may not interest that reader in cyberspace.  Whom do I write for?  Myself or that unseen public?


And that blank page...augh, the blank page!  Doesn't every writer have a secret love-hate relationship with a blank page?  On one hand, it's a blank page to be filled with some kind of sensible text...that essay on imagery in Coleridge's poetry, the research paper about some esoteric topic that only a teacher or professor will ever read,  the job application, the thank-you note to Great Aunt Gertrude for the purple and orange scarf and mittens you know you'll never wear, the letter to the former lover...

On the other hand, the blank page is a galaxy of possibilities and opportunities:  communication with others, information to share, stories to tell, worlds to explore.  Love poems, recipes, shopping lists, angry words, deep dark secrets, joyous outbursts...  


So, the blank page awaits.  What happens here happens, good or bad.  I'll try to string some words together that make sense and have some kind of point.  I can't guarantee the content or the quality, but I'll try to keep this going with whatever words I can find.