In 2010, I started blogging. It was the right thing to do. Before I knew it, the "life and whatnot" blog I had planned became an all-out writing blog. I met writers from all over the world, and found several handfuls of friends that I now can't imagine living life without.
I wrote. And wrote, and wrote.
And then, I stopped.
I didn't stop out of boredom. I didn't stop because of giving up. I stopped because life started to happen.
I moved to a major city, got plugged into a church I adore, found myriad new passions and ideas.
It hurts, a touch (or more than a touch), to acknowledge that I pushed writing aside. I don't want to admit that its role in my life has gone from ULTIMATE to ONE OF MANY.
Does this mean I'm no longer pursuing writing as a career? I don't know. I just really don't know. It does not mean that I'm no longer working on my craft. I still have the desire to learn how to make stories go, to the best of their ability. Make believe is still my #1 heartthrob, in all its varied forms. But, oh, what a life this is, now, to also have a #2, and 3, and probably 4.