So I read today in The New York Times about a Mommy blogger who garners 36,000 hits a day. And I've read about the bloggers who get major endorsements and make a cottage industry out of blogging.
Where do I want this blog to take me? Do I need validation? Do I need an expanded readership? I'm not sure.
When I started this blog, I wrote mainly to vent demons. My brothers are still mortified that I air so many family secrets via my blog. I wrote about Sandy and dysfunctional relationships, suicide and love. Sometimes I wrote about the difficulties I experience with raising children... and then I wrote about Gran.
I write because I can no longer contain what is within me. I write because I can't turn to the lady in the frozen food section of Harris Teeter and ask her if her children drive her to drink. I write because sometimes I cannot even see what is directly in front of me unless it is put into the written word.
Ahead of me lie a 40th birthday party, First Holy Communion, Derby, the addition to the house, the end of school, Nevis, 12 years of marriage... I cannot fathom living these experiences and not writing about them.
For instance, today. Today I am not in dreary, drizzly Virginia. I am hundreds of miles away, dreaming in California. I cannot shake the grip the state took upon me last month. I traveled to Sonoma with my mother and I have been conjuring up schemes to move there ever since. I dream of soil and grapes, sun and wine. I want to own a vineyard. I want to work the land. I can still feel the dappled sunshine upon my skin when we visited Jordan. I see the mustard winding through the pruned vines, yellowing the fields. I can taste the velvet smoke of Lynmar Estates pinot noir. It was a heady experience. The food, the wine, the lush vegetation. I felt a draw that I struggle to describe. But here, in this venue, I can.
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