I have been sitting here staring at an empty page for about ten minutes. It’s not an essay assignment I’m lax to begin, nor is it yet another page from my employers book. It’s a letter. To you. A post really, is what we call them, but really that’s what a weblog is. A long continuous letter filled with what is happening and what I wish were happening and what has happened and sometimes I throw in a little extra at no charge—what might have happened.

But today, feeling the pressure to update because I haven’t in so long, I feel quiet.

I said to a friend the other day that the seasons where my writing is nonexistent are the seasons when my observations are few. The monotonies of the days run into one another like gravy and peas and everything else on Thanksgiving Day. It’s not that life is boring; it’s just that the same exciting things happen with such regularity that I forget to mention them in my prayers at night. God Blesses are a thing of the past. My eyes are shut the moment I sink into bed.

And so nothing gets written, nothing gets said. This letter is lame. Send it back at my expense.