There are times for writing, and then there are times when writing simply isn’t possible.
As regular readers of Fugitive Ink may have noticed, more and more often over the past year or two, there hasn’t really been much time for writing hereabouts. Months pass between posts. When I’ve tried the sort of solution to this that seems to work for some bloggers — a random photograph, a word of explanation — the result has rarely been satisfactory.
Probably readers find this on-again, off-again business frustrating. Certainly, I find it frustrating.
And yet there’s something unsurprising about it, too. In truth, writing isn’t the main focus of my life, for the simple reason that I’ve never really wanted it to be the main focus of my life. Other things matter more. At the moment, those ‘other things’ simply don’t allow time for writing — let alone for the reading, thinking and intuition that really ought to underpin any worthwhile writing. Also, politics at the moment has taken on a strangely bitter taste. Picking fights can be fun when doing so is a matter of choice — but when it becomes a matter of inevitability, the fun tends to fade.
So for the moment, anyway, I am going to turn my attention elsewhere. At some point in the future, I may be back. In the meantime, however, many thanks to all the friends of Fugitive Ink for the encouragement and enlightenment you have provided over the past three years.