
Herein lies my own ever-rolling cycle. I know I'm fickle. I know I'm inconstant. The struggle stems from a desire to please, if I had to put a fine point on it. I hate to disappoint. Do I write something that's not good at all just so that I can say that I wrote something? Or do I not put anything out there until it's perfect? It's all pressure I put on myself, I understand this fully. I sure do wonder who reads all this stuff I assert on a daily (sort of) basis, though, and it begs the question: who do I write for? A dear friend put that question to me a while back and I didn't know the answer. I wasn't able to put a finger on who my audience is, and yet I write. They're all in the mix: friends, family (near and far), total strangers, folks who want to know what I'm cooking on a given day, old flames, hoped-for flames, my dear mom, distant Swedish relatives. Me. Me? Me.
When my sister and I embarked on this blog-a-day journey, I don't think we realized how mundane it would get. I think we live quietly extraordinary lives here, but it was starting to seem otherwise. I think we need to give ourselves a bit of freedom. I'll keep telling myself that a well-edited tome need not be cranked out each day, and the task will surely take on a lighter, friendlier tone. So I'll post, not worrying about who is catching all of my sure genius. Dear reader, get ready for a little bit of abstract nonsense from time to time.