I had a bit of an enlightening moment this evening. A random comment to someone at work got me reminiscing of a time when I gave myself the permission to write.

My old blog, as some of you tried and true friends will remember, was updated far more regularly and in my opinion, with much more substance than this one. That happened for a variety of reasons. I began censoring myself when I found out a couple of acquaintances of mine were not reading out of enjoyment, but to glean information in a negative way. Soon after, a bunch of personal issues came together and I did what I do best. I turtled.

This coworker of mine is an avid follower of current events, and had been reading the blogs of some of the more prolific conservative Canadian bloggers. He was shocked to know that not only was mine linked by the top of the tops for a while, but that I also hosted the Red Ensign Standard many moons ago. I took a look back...I'd had nearly 25,000 visitors to my site this time last year.

It made me a bit melancholy for the enjoyment I felt when I researched and wrote an article. Be it on something small or heartfelt, or striking and profound. I found that not only did I enjoy writing, I thrived on it. But then that fell apart. Those little naysayers inside yourself that remind you that there are many more people much better than yourself.

I joined NaNoWriMo last November. I finished it in a fit of frenzy in just 21 days. 50,000 words (well, 51,825 but who's counting) in just 3 WEEKS! I made pacts with friends to go to 100,000 and complete a second draft. But have I looked at it since? Nope. Not even once.

Maybe I burned myself out. Maybe I let my negative realism come through. Maybe just life itself made me need to try and find other outlets. I never wanted my blog, or my writings to be another complaint forum or to sound hard done by. But the fact of the matter was...there were more than a few things that have been sapping my energy of late. The knee thing - nearly a year on crutches ain't a fun thing emotionally, but at the same time, I start to think of those way worse off than I - so no point in saying anything. At least it wasn't fatal!

Losing my last job had a bigger toll on me than I wanted to admit. I knew that it was a deadend world where my strong work ethic was taken advantage of. I knew that those who called themselves my friends truly weren't. But even though I knew I had to leave, when I finally got those walking papers, it still stung. It still felt like a rejection. It stung my core, with me trying to deny that every step of the way. I got my new job the following day. 6 hours out of work before the offer was signed. How could I possibly feel rejected? But I did.

I still read the news voraciously. I still have many opinions - and strong ones at that - about the plight of the world today.

Tonight's conversation with my coworker made me want to write again. The intense sense of accomplishment is something I've not found since. I miss it.

I think - I hope - I'm coming back to the blogosphere. Properly this time.