Once upon a time, there were three posts a week.
And for a time before that, there was one a day.
In the early days of the blog, heady with capturing the experiences of the year, there were several posts a day. (I was trying to offer an alternative to the Christmas roundrobin, putting stories on the blog instead.)
Just now…well, quite a while seems to go by without writing.
Some of that is spent waiting to identify what I want to write about. And waiting for a writing push, to be honest.
In previous years, September would come round, the writing seed would start to push its way back to the surface.
Shortening days – lengthening time spent writing.
Just now, my words are being used for more functional purposes.
Enquiring about what to cook – and then checking and checking again while Mini tries to identify whether to stay on target with a choice or not.
Directing foot traffic at off-for-school time. Helping gloves and their owners become reunited.
Identifying myself across a crowded playground. Trying to cut a middle way through ‘I did – no you didn’t’s.
Oftentimes, my words are in stiff competition with the other words in the ether.
Ones that may include cars and dolls. Minecraft and nativity songs. Stories from Newsround and the latest love-hate relationships at nursery.
That’s OK. That’s where it’s at. The quieter words, the ones I look for when there is stillness – they haven’t left. (I try to remind myself of that.)
I kind of hope that the quieter words are holing up somewhere. Getting organised. Planning, digging tunnels. Politicising, even.
Some day, I hope I will open the door, and out will come the marching band of quiet words, ready for a parade.
I don’t think they are hiding (though I do sometimes at the noise levels). I don’t think they are too put off at the crash of Duplo trucks or the whoosh of yet another paper aeroplane.
I like to think of them, sometimes, nestled against each other in the dark, like bottles in a cellar. Allowing dust to cover them (that one’s easy to achieve).
Maybe it only needs a torch, or even a lightswitch.
They’ll be there. Waiting.
If I’m lucky – maturing.