It's not like riding a bike. Writing, that is. It takes practice, and I haven't had much in a long time.
I first realized this when I was putting together a scrapbook for my high school friends and tried to write a meaningful introduction to the book. Rusty doesn't begin to describe it. At that time, one of my friends suggested I blog to keep up my skills, and I laughed at her. What did I have to write? And who would possibly read it?
Well, the latter question remains to be answered, but I sense that I have at least ten dear friends and family who might read my blog, if only because they already like me and will be at least vaguely interested in most anything I have to say. As for what I have to write...well, I seem to have a lot of thoughts that cannot be expressed in a Facebook status update, which is what passes for my writing these days. I don't have a theme, unless "random things that occur to Cynthia" counts as a theme.
I would probably be best served by starting a journal, and was recently inspired to at least consider the thought by a friend who has kept a lifelong journal and is using the material to write her memoir. However, I know my limitations. I'd never do it. I tried to keep a diary once around puberty. I abandoned the project pretty quickly and, when I looked at it a year later, was mortified by what I'd written and dropped the whole Hello Kitty notebook into the trash can.
I don't think that my thoughts or writing skills are truly worthy of public consumption, but at least the fact that someone out there could read it will force me to do a bit of self-editing. There's no trash can for the Internet--it's out there, as they say.
The other thing that persuaded me to try this is that I truly enjoy the online interaction with thoughtful friends, so perhaps this will provide another outlet for that. If you ever take the time to read this and have something to share, I'd love to hear from you. We'll just pretend it's a discussion over a bottle of wine, and we'll all have a better time.