the much-delayed return of what seems to be self-assurance.

Dear Reader,
(if anyone but me is reading this that is)

Have you been wondering where the devil I am? Excuse the archaic latter half of the interrogative if you think it inappropriate for this century; I have recently discovered Sherlock Holmes, and while I can't really recall reading it in any of his cases, I feel I must credit it to a possible dialogue uttered by Watson.

I digress, as usual. If you've been with me right from the beginning, you might perhaps be aware that I often do so. I think it a little entertaining. Do you?

Anyway. I have a confession/outburst/resolution to make.

This blog was meant to be for me. My little spot where I could nurture my writing. It was supposed to be an outlet for the creativity that lay dormant deep within me. It was meant to transform that dormancy into a seething, ferocious active volcano that would erupt with fabulous vignettes. Because I was told by near and dear and loved and not so loved ones that I had a gift with words. That I could write. That the drivel I often spouted had the potential to be something greater (okay those last few words are mine but the near and dear and loved and not so loved ones meant the same thing). For a time the volcano remained busy. But then somehow, somewhere, my blog lost its identity and as a writer, so did I. I began to crave followers, comments, page views, like an obsessed wanna-be tween with a newly uploaded profile picture on Facebook (I think I'm being unfair to tweens everywhere. I could accuse plenty of adults of harbouring the same obsession). At one point I even longed for my blog to be one of the most-read in the country. To be on those ranking lists. Phooey.

Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful to my followers. It makes me feel good that there are people out there who think what I write is worth reading (even if a lot of them are my friends who I've coerced into doing so) and who take the time to discern the annoying-as-hell captcha code and post a comment. I still feel a thrill when on the rare occurrence, I notice a new follower has joined the ranks of My Beloved Stalkers.

Reading so many different blogs, especially local ones, somehow got me muddled about what I began blogging for. I'm not really interested in telling people here what to do with their time and where to go. There are plenty of other blogs on which they can find that kinda info. I don't care to give anyone advice. I will perhaps continue chronicling interesting events I attend as they are part of my experiences and I believe there's something to learn from every encounter, every experience, although I think my last few posts have only been about events, which is going to lessen. I'm pretty sure I have more to write about than to inform people in many words of what a good time I'm having.

Of course, it is a part of every writer's dream to be read. To be recognized. To see their name in print. To write something that an editor thinks is worth publishing. And get published. And keep getting published. On second thought, I'm not going to generalize. I don't really know any other aspiring writers (but one) so I'm not going to speak for anyone. This is a part of my dream.

I don't want to lose my touch and I fear very much that I will if I continue my disappearances for such frequent and prolonged hiatuses. I don't want my blog to die. I don't know why I stopped posting for so long - it might be listlessness, a waning of enthusiasm, an inexplicable reticence, of not wanting to be read mingled with a despair of 'oh who's going to read it anyway', which in retrospect is quite unfair, as I'm pretty certain there at least 8 people who regularly read my deviating narratives and like them. It's definitely not writer's block, for I have many more drafts than actual posts. I think I just have a serious problem with finishing what I begin writing - I need to be completely satisfied with the conclusion.

But this has gone on for far too long. I am suddenly overcome with an impatient fervour to just sign into Blogger and do nothing but type.

To ensure that something (of hopefully, considerable quality) is churned out at regular intervals on my darling blog, I solemnly swear that, henceforth, I will have a post out (and not just save it as a draft, but hit the 'Publish' button) atleast once every fortnight.

I do value and welcome your feedback, criticisms and any pointers you may have for me. How else will I improve? Whether you love a post or hate it, I want to know. Especially if you hate it. Unless it's in your nature to just hate and spread the hate for the sake of it. Then I don't really want to hear from you, as I dislike unnecessary unpleasantness, more so if it's uncalled for. The alliterations were unintentional (HA!!).

Oh and in case you were wondering where the devil I've been (come to think of it, I might have lifted the expression from a Wodehouse novel), I found my first full-time job and have been working since Jan-end, and vacationed in Central Europe (yes, again) for three weeks in Aug-Sept. So I've plenty to write about.

Since you've been such a patient reader, I'll leave you with a not-so-terrible photo I took (of Schloss Eckberg, a hotel in Dresden, Germany that serves the most gorgeous and delicious breakfast EVER) and Bertie Wooster's endearing words of farewell: Tinkerty-tonk!

Schloss Eckberg and the sun peering though the branches