Very recently, a friend asked me why I don't blog as often as I used to. I told her that lately, I've been turning out such inexcusable tripe while writing that it's simply embarrassing to post it online. She pooh-poohed the idea and ordered me to blog more.
Later on, I got to thinking why I've become so irregular with my blogging. Maybe it's just that I don't have things to write - not things that I'd care to share on a public forum, anyway. True, my blog is much less public now after I've made it invitation-only, to keep it away from certain people's prying eyes. But somehow I feel like my blogging isn't worth a second look - I don't have Shreya's gift of comparing life to her beautiful photographs, I don't have Mandy's talent for putting into a few words entire feelings or incidents, and I don't have Reeti's quality of writing simple but sweet updates. These are blogs I could read again and again - but mine? Mine (although it has its moments) is simply a sorry excuse for a blog address.
I think my talent for words, for stringing together sentences and drawing pictures with them, shines through only in my work. I love each feature article that I write, I treasure each paragraph, each quote, and each interview - because it's a part of me and no one can take it away. Work may be my defence mechanism for quite a lot of things, but it's the only thing that keeps me sane - and life, although hectic and fast-paced and busy, is simply amazing. I wouldn't want things any other way.
