I’m not sure what to write here, but I feel like I need to get down something, if only to get the ball rolling. Overcoming that initial inertia is the hardest part of forward movement, right?

I don’t want this little space of mine to be limited to a certain topic. I’m confident I can’t (and don’t want to) be the kind of blogger who churns out tons of content devoted to the same topic. I wouldn’t speculate that my interests are more wide-ranging than those other bloggers, but I know I don’t have that kind of attention span or dedication.

I haven’t written–really written–anything in ages. Years. Once upon a time I had a reasonably sized readership and name recognition that still echoes today in certain circles. (And if you don’t already know that name, I’m not going to tell you. Sorry, not sorry. A sense of mystery makes life worth living.) I gave that up to focus on me in the physical world.

I’m not always sure that was the right choice.

I grew so accustomed to being in graduate school and either swamped with work and pressing deadlines or just absolutely exhausted that somewhere along the way I quit writing for myself, stopped drawing and painting and–in some ways–dreaming for myself. I’ve been done for three years now, but something in me shies away whenever I try to start back into old hobbies. I think part of it is a (misplaced) sense of guilt. Surely there are better things I could be doing than indulging in self-serving hobbies? Reading is still okay, though, so perhaps that’s not it.

One potential barrier that I’ve encountered is the ridiculous notion that one has to be a “real writer” or a “real author” in order to make the efforts worthwhile. Writing seems unique among the hobbies that way. No one tells fantasy football aficionados that they need to get a job managing real teams or quit wasting their time. It’s fun, okay. That’s why I did it and why I’d like to do it again. Once upon a time, I wanted to be published. I wanted to be bestselling author, and I wanted people to be able to walk into a bookstore and walk out with something with my name on it. Now, that’s not a driving force for me anymore. It’d be nice if it happens, but it’s not necessary.

Another factor is, of course, time. I’ve got more obligations and self-imposed commitments now, and writing isn’t easy like it used to be. Do you know how long it’s taken me just to put this together? That’s how many pages of a book or extra minutes of sleep or talks with friends or whatever else that I could have been doing instead?

Regardless, here we are: baby steps back into rusty water from a long-unused spigot.