About a week ago, I left the house to lead one of my book groups. I headed for our Honda Hybrid. I usually do. It's got the iPhone jack, so I can cue up music for the ride.
I got in, got situated, got plugged in--and stopped. There sat the old Jeep next to me. With no jack, no fancy outlets, no GPS, and a bum radio, to boot.
I hauled my things out of the loud car and into the other one. I then rode for an hour in utter bliss: down twisting roads, past small farms, and in silence.
Likewise, this blog has gone quiet lately--enough that many of you have sent me messages to ask if everything's okay, if something's happened. Thank you for that.
Silence happened. Well, that and other things. Bruce had some nasty surgery. In the meantime, we've been trying to finish a 700-recipe book that's due on 12/30. And there's been publicity for our whole-grain book. Plus the continual business of writing a column for weightwatchers.com. And a spate of feature articles. You know: life.
Which isn't twitter. Or facebook. Or maybe even a blog.
What I'm about to say may have a whiff of those vaunted sour grapes, rotting on the vine. But I'm trying to figure out how the way I practice this old-world skill--writing long-form prose--can make it in this new-fangled world of constant words. Of too many words. Of incessant words. Of so many extroverts.
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