Oh, hum. A lament about what to write about.... Another one?
For some reason this is not a problem I have struggled with. Truth be told, (passive voice, I know. Phooey—rules!) I don't run out of things to say or stories to tell. This is not my problem.
But who is listening?
So I sit (or walk, or vacuum) and think about you, the imaginary reader. What were you doing just before you bumped into my blog? What would add value to your mini-break from the things you must attend to, your own work, (official and unofficial) that which you care about and will get back to as soon as you click this page away?
And then, suddenly, the endless chatter inside me is silenced. The page goes blank.
I have no idea.
This is when I remind myself that Steven Spielberg said he makes the movies he’d like to see, and Stephen King said he writes the books he’d like to read. No matter that they're both Steves, sort of. They're also right.
And I get back to my internal clatter. Now I managed to write yet another post, and it entertained me.
And all’s well with the world.