Message in a bottle

Greetings, faithful readers.
It's been roughly two months since I began this journey.
I am a blogger.
This is a blog.
Blog, a contraction of the term Web log.
Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, eh?
Which is as it should be, cause it doesn't exactly slide into a life.
It is insatiable. And unfathomable. Like tossing rolled up bottled messages into a vast Internet sea.

I put up a huge amount of resistance to this practice, as I have a hard time fathoming why anyone other than my friends and family would be interested. Which on the face of it is odd, because as a former Sunday newspaper columnist for the second largest paper in New Jersey, I was actually paid to write what came into my head.

But this is different. Unfiltered. Raw. Unedited by anyone but me. I never realized before the comfort an editor brings.

It gobbles up my life. There are always several posts underway simultaneously, most of which never make it online. As I go about my day, ideas flood my brain. When I empty my pockets, I find slips of paper with fragments. The book I am rewriting simmers on a back burner.

This is where the generation gap makes itself known. I mention to a younger friend that I'm blogging in dribs and drabs, during 15 breaks at work. And he responses with: That's great. Do a break blog.

A break blog? Never crossed this ol' broad's mind. I am busy cobbling moments together. He says the moment is enough. Ah, the difference several decades make.

Break over.