"Your blog post should prominently feature the blogfest badge as well as something from your first year of blogging that you believe deserves some TLC, or that you're especially proud of and wish to showcase, or simply has sentimental value for you."
I read through posts I wrote on this blog in 2008, and none seemed to warrant pride. So I went for sentiment -- I wrote the post below at an ebb in my life, and despite my vow to keep things impersonal on the blog, my emotions leaked in. This post also talks about my biggest love (after my husband), books; and my (very small) first foray into publication. So here goes. I hope my posts have improved since.
I've moved on since to Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, which is a good antidote with all its dreamlike strangeness. I sometimes feel I should read less and see more, have more conversations, but then I'm drawn back to books by an invisible elastic cord that gives me some leeway, but pulls me back again.
Reading has somehow become an organic part of my daily routine: if I can't find a novel, short story, or poem, I'll find a magazine or newspaper, if I can't find those, I'll find a brochure, or a menu, or a manual. Failing all this I'll go a little cuckoo in my head and snap at people. Somewhat like when I'm hungry. The minute I'm bad-tempered my hubby asks me if I'm hungry, I guess he should add 'do you need a book?' Reading is the best education there is for writing, so I suppose I shouldn't be complaining.
Been writing the past few days, and two of my short pieces got put up in the local web-zine, so everything is mostly on the up and up. I should be happy, "should' being the operative word, but that's okay too, because I find I tend to write more and write better when I have this nameless melancholy.