Motherload

I have been horribly aware of exiting the blogosphere without warning (to myself as much as anyone else) in the middle of last year. The fact is that much of last year was spent in a job that did not allow much time for anything else -- but I actually had to do a LOT else. Writing fell by the wayside, its wheedling, needy claims outstripped by the claims of children, other activities, and frankly, depression. Now I'm back in the saddle, and have been for a month, but have found myself afraid to try writing again. Don't get me wrong, I write all the time, but so, so often for other people, within frameworks, controlled, contained, unferal. This is so much easier than writing for myself. So, in coming back to the blog, at first it seems to me that none of my concerns have changed: I am still reading, and dying to express my unasked-for opinions on what I read ( The Tiger's Wife is jolly good, by the way; and did you see the Richter retrospective; and I'm struggling a li...