Love letter to one's own blogging

Goodness, I miss blogging.  I didn't realize how much until about a week ago.  I really, really miss it.  It might sound pathetic, but, for reason poorly understood even by me, it was an important part of my life for about two years.  And old habits die slowly.  At any given time I am compiling a post or two, at times coming up with a rough drafts, but, as you can see from the recent activity, the posts rarely materialize.

I guess many things are at fault here: turns out that as children grow older, they need me more, and not less; the immediate gratification of Facebook, which I vowed not to use not so long ago; discipline and organization required for regular posting - among other things - has almost completely disappeared; dwindling comments, which I see in any other blog I regularly read; discovery of Dancing with the Stars by your truly, among some other shows.  (Yes, Maxim Chmerkovskiy, I blame you for he downfall of my blog).  Overall, it seems that only half of the blogs on my Reader have posted an entry in the past six months, and only a very few still post regularly.  Pretty much everyone has reduced the frequency of posts.  Is there something cyclical about blogging, or is blogging dying?

Well, I hope not.  Because as pleasurable as The Body of Proof is (and I really mean shirtless Maxim Chmerkovskiy - I can practically smell excommunication) (OMG, that was so unintended, I really meant Dana Delaney's show, and it could've just as easily been Lie to Me or Parks and Recreation), the satisfaction of wittily written post, even if no one comments on it, is far superior.  And, as a wise person have advised me, one must nurture the inner self.  In my case, it's writing, no matter how poorly it is done.  So I am making yet another attempt to revive my blog.

Wish me luck.