I wish I could tell you I was really busy. That I was deeply involved in building some low income housing. Or that I was stuck under a remarkably heavy boulder. Because the truth is as dull as dishwater: I was lazy. I could generate neither the energy nor the incentive to sit down and write a blog post, not even a half-assed, shitty one. I know. It is pathetic. How in the hell can I even call myself a “writer” when I can’t even compose a few lines for the few people who were nice enough to sign-up for the occasional musing from me? Actually, it’s pretty easy. I’ll even go you one better. I’ll argue that my extended absence from blog world proves that I am, in fact a writer. Because even though I wasn’t sitting in front of my keyboard it doesn’t mean that I wasn’t writing. Stay with me.

I once read a quote that said (I’m paraphrasing) “Writing is the only occupation where staring blankly into space can be considered working.” While I wasn’t writing blog posts I was staring. A lot. And thinking about a host of things minor and major:

“How the hell am I 52?”

“I don’t understand how anyone watches Game of Thrones.”

“Gone Girl? Meh.”

“So, do I whip and then nay nay?”

“Okay, so the dwarf is also the king’s son?”

“Two FEET? Do you have the number for the snow plow guy?”

“How the hell am I 53?”

“Clooney got married?!?”

“I hope Joffrey dies!”

“Self published. We’ll see.”

“Donald Trump for President? Never gonna happen.”

“Dick Cheney’s still alive?!?”

“A dap?”

“How the hell am I 54?”

“Florida. Again.”

“I knew Jon Snow wasn’t dead!”

“When did I write my last blog post?”

So, yes, technically I wasn’t writing but as you can see it’s not like my mind was idle. And I do have another book in the pipeline, another memoir. I’m currently reviewing comments from my editor. Bit of a slog but coming along. Hope to have it out before the end of the year. But I’m feeling that writing itch. I think I’ll be posting more regularly. Hopefully. You know how it is, work, house, dogs, life. But even if I don’t post every couple of weeks don’t freak. It doesn’t mean I’m not staring out a window at absolutely nothing thinking thoughts.

Because if Ramsay Bolton makes it out of season 6 alive I’m going to lose it.