At least they are to me. And when I decided to stop blogging and in essence quit writing (for pleasure) - about six months ago, I didn't anticipate the the words would become so jumbled in my brain, that they would almost literally become homeless if I let them.
Or maybe that's just slightly dramatic.
But drama or not, and my reasons for stopping notwithstanding, I am a person who can't not write. As a child I filled pages upon pages of diaries frought with tween, then teen angst. As a young(er) adult, I kept a journal passworded on my PC - but it was about then that the content stopped being so much about me per se and more about the art of forming words to create what I thought were beautiful sentences. Later I would go back and read critically but always feeling content that no matter what, I was a writer. When blogging became a thing, I was pretty sure I'd just won the lottery because now I could stop writing letters to the editors (and taking shit for it from family members - "what's wrong with you??") and sending articles to local papers that edited my stuff to a shell of what it was meant to be - I could actually just write somewhere without much ado. And obviously, being the narcissist that I am I assume you enjoy reading my stuff.
So many things have happened in the last six months (including this AMAZING piece written by a dear friend that needs more eyeballs on it, it's that good). So many times I was inspired by something I read on HuffPo or TIME or my Facebook or Twitter feeds but I had nowhere to put my thoughts (except out of my mouth and that's not always the best way - for me at least). I found myself texting people more than I should have, and *GASP* picking up the phone to toss my rhetoric at unsuspecting friends and family members.
So I'm back at it. Read at your own risk. And apologies in advance.