Well. All right. I was a little hasty in yesterday’s post. The wondrous, all-powerful IT people have now restored our access, and I can resume reading about
naked ladies knitting.
(See, you knew there would be a but, right?) I noticed that while a great part of me was relieved, there was this small blue part that thought, "Oh. I thought I was off the hook there. I thought that meant more book-reading time. More time to write."
Let’s examine that.
This blogging thing is one of my main joys in life. Really. I love and adore it. And you. I have no intention of stopping. But MAN, does it take a lot of time and commitment. If you know me, you know I have Catholic issues with guilt. (Never been Catholic, however, nor has anyone in my family. I was crushed when Mom told me I probably couldn’t be a nun because I wasn’t Catholic. Devastated. I’m not kidding.) Big guilty feelings happen when I don’t wash my sheets often enough, so imagine how I feel when I realize I haven’t left a comment on a person’s site in a long time, and I really like that person, and I want her to know I like her.
Then I had a rather revelatory thought. I thought about the people that I read and love who rarely, if ever, comment on my blog. I realized that I don’t mind if they don’t comment on mine. I don’t care if they don’t even read my blog. Ever. I still read them, still adore ’em, and even better, feel no obligation to leave a comment behind me when I close the window.
Do you ever feel that way? I’ve been blogging now for about three years, two of them within the knitting community (even though god knows how I got here, I almost never write about knitting), and I’ve found the people out here to be some of the most brilliant, caring people I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting. I can’t wait to read my favorite sites, and it feels like coming home when I do. But there was a moment that happened, about a year ago, maybe, when I got a wonderful comment from someone who maintained a fantastic site with unbelievably great writing, and while I was thrilled to make her acquaintance, there was a part of me that said, "Shit. That’s another fantabulous person I want to keep up on. Damn it."
Would you all just quit being so freaking awesome? Please?
So I have a rather drastic resolution. I’m going to read Bloglines like it’s goin’ out of style (please, please, please, publish an unabridged RSS feed if at all possible — it ups your chances of being read by more people by about a million percent. Or at least a little more. It might not be quite that high. But it’s higher. Jeesh). I’ll dip in and comment when I feel really moved to do so. I will not feel guilty about this. I will still adore you. I promise. I hope you adore me, too. (Damned codependent crap. Oh, well. Who doesn’t like to be liked?)
My little worrying voice is chipping away in my mind (I know, they have drugs for that, but I’m not ready for ’em just yet), asking, "Is that okay? Will that work for you?"
I say to it (myself, whatever), "Yes! It’s okay! They’re blogs, for the love of cashmere. They’re not your life."
But really, they are a large part of my life. Okay.
Happy weekend, all. Thanks for reading me. I’m a better person for y’all. I’m so HAPPY to know you. Big, sloppy MWAH.
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