I've been a bad blogger.
My intentions have always been good, but then I got depressed in February 2011 and then I got better and then a close relative was murdered and our world was turned upside-down.
It felt like there was nothing important to say except how devastating it was, how grievous the crime, how unimaginably complex and damaging a murder is to the victim and all who loved her.
But it wasn't right to write about it; she deserved some privacy. Everyone around her needed it. They still do. We still do, about this tragedy.
Now I might have something to say about other topics, including those darned books I keep writing. And getting an agent. And fearing success, failure, no time, too much time and the dreaded (but desired) writing group I'm about to join.
Then there is life: children graduating, getting bigger, not responding to medications to alleviate paranoia (that's another day). Summer break! OH BOY! oh boy.