Writing. Again.

There was a time when I wrote. I wrote about inane things like my life and my dog. But, a few times a week, I'd sit down and write. I didn't write to gain readers or to get a book deal. Very few people knew about this blog and I didn't censor my writing for those who did. I wrote to write. For me. And I enjoyed it. A lot. Then I took a new job at a company that blocked the vast majority of websites - including Blogger. And then I had a kid. And then I had another kid. And, somewhere along the way, I stopped writing. I've missed the anonymity of this blog - of being able to write about what I want without criticism, without judgment, without anyone knowing it's here. I do wonder if I'll be able to do it. If I'll be able to keep up the schedule and habit of writing. If I'll find things to write about. And I wonder who I'll be as a writer now. If my voice will have changed since having kids, since I'm less willing to put myself out there. Or if I'll have a more serious tone now that my life, well, it's a bit more serious. At its worst, this will be a good exercise - a good mental break from a career that taxes my emotional health, a step toward being the writer I've always wanted to be - and, right now, that's enough for me.