I have neglected all forms of writing for the past two months and nine days. Forgive me. I've become slow and cumbersome, dull and thick. My conversations for the last eight weeks have revolved around which Jonas brother is the cutest and if pizza or grilled cheese is being served for lunch. I don't feel sharp. There's no eagerness to write.

But perhaps that isn't entirely terrible. I've come to notice that I am an observer. It'll play into writing somehow, I'm sure.

I've also fallen in love with the likes of Steinbeck and Whitman. Along with Capote and Harper Lee, John Steinbeck successfully managed to paint a picture in my head. And his words made me cry. It was a gut-wrenching cry, too. I've always dreamed of being able to have the power, the ability, the audacity to make people lose control of their emotions. One day. One day I will.

And until then I'll continue to write. I'll continue to observe. I'll continue to pretend that the things I think need to be said would like to be heard by someone else.

And until then I'll keep making Shrinky Dinks. I'll keep worrying if my girls are getting enough water, enough sleep. I'll keep dancing to the Cha-Cha Slide every Friday night. I'll keep going.