Not much to say, but seeking input

Sometimes these posts practically write themselves. Other times, they must be dragged, kicking and screaming, from whichever cortex handles verbal production. There are a few posts that gave me such fits, they simply did not made the cut. For your sake, be glad. Be very glad.

This one? It's putting up quite a fight. Digging in heels, pulling back on the leash, resisting in pretty much every way possible. I just don't have much of value to offer this week. Therefore, I'll solicit your advice on a matter I've been mulling.

I go back and forth about the whole blog thing. One of the reasons I began blogging in the first place was because I wanted to see whether I had pertinent, meaningful things to say, and whether I could create the time to say them. Well, I've managed to carve out some time. Pertinent? Meaningful? Whether or not I've met those content-related goals is your call. I do seem to keep coming up with things to say... However, I also must constantly read back over what I've written to make sure I'm not kvetching about the same old stuff week in and week out. I tend to do that, I've been told. I deny it hotly, but privately acknowledge there may be some truth to the observation.

I started to blog, all the time wondering if I had things to say and time to say them, because deep down, I thought I would have written a book by now. At one point in my life, I thought I had several books in me. Of course, that was when I was steeped in literature (teaching and studying it), before I had a child and my brain started to degenerate. Now, I think I'd be lucky to extract a single, slim volume from somewhere in that bumpy gray mass. And it, too, would likely need to be coerced into the light with some force.

I'm not even not sure what I'd write about. I seem to lean toward the sort of writing I do here: personal expression, the occasional remembrance or anecdote. But could I make a book out of this? Perhaps, but it's doubtful. I have lots of interests, but none in which I'd consider myself an expert. To further complicate things, my acceptance of Christianity as fact in the past decade has introduced the additional consideration that whatever I write should be, must be, of overall positive moral significance. It should not be a piece of work that will further degrade the populace, but something that will hopefully help them—something that might ultimately deliver them. Not to be lofty and highfalutin or anything, but it's good to have goals, right?

You can see my dilemma. Trash sells. Sappy fiction sells. Expert advice from real, live experts sells. I don't really fall into any of those profitable categories.

So, what's left? Does anyone out there have a suggestion? I have some potential story lines, based loosely on events in my own life and the lives of friends...but am I really cut out to write about "un-real" subject matters? Could real stories be successful? Is there a better direction? Does anybody have a lead on the future of publishing? (Other than it's likely to eventually become paperless?) I could use some feedback. If you know me and feel funny commenting here, just email instead.

Peaches just past their prime

I waited a day too long--when I'd finally dragged out the easel, I had to arrange these fellas to hide the spots where they were starting to turn. We sliced 'em up later that night and had a bite.

I wondered as I nibbled and wiped peach juice from my chin... would I enjoy painting as much if it were my vocation instead of avocation? What if I suddenly had to do it every day? Is the mere act of accepting compensation for an activity sufficient to strip the activity of its joy?

I still enjoy blogging/writing. But if I had to do it? For pay?

Thoughts?