Or, the USMC saves the day again! Too many of my fellow bloggers are falling along the wayside. It makes me sad. I often ask why they want to fold, and the answers are almost always the same. They feel they're fighting an uphill battle with few or no rewards. Now, I'm no strategist but common sense does not require rose colored glasses to read the writing on the wall. We are losing too many mail bloggers. We are losing them due to indifference and thoughtlessness. I know, I know. We like a good read about correspondence, tools of the trade; we want to make new pen friends, but all too often we take the blog authors for granted. We devour their offerings and move on. In silence.
I am guilty. I am often a silent, invisible reader-follower. I don't mean to be. I want to leave comments on every blog I follow or visit. But this is what happens. I read. I become a little hypnotized. I sit. I think about what I've read. I might laugh, smile or nod my head in agreement with the author. Then. Then I think of the next post that awaits me. Lordy, but there are so many. Let me tell you this. I decided to comment on each post that I listed as favorites. Sisters and brothers. It took two evenings! For real. My arms and my butt ached; discomfort forced me to stop before I was halfway through. I was ecstatic when I came across the few that refused to cooperate. I skipped them with relish and delight. Sorry. 'Tis true.
The good bloggers I interviewed informally admitted that low to zero feedback fueled their decisions to cut back or flat out quit. I think that's a shame. I have eight blogs and I follow so many that I lose count, but I follow those authors because they are good. They capture my interest, my imagination, they educate me, they entertain, the get my dander up, they get my goat . . . They serve a broad purpose in my life. I am an introverted loner. By choice. But. And it's another big
I know how they feel. Indeed I do. When that flag goes up and my enthusiasm lags I ask myself, "Girl, who are you writing for?" My answer is righteous. "Girl, why do you host giveaways?" That's easy. I have too much stuff; too many goodies. I refuse to bribe someone to read what I write. I get to offend, have my say, cuss a little, and move on. This is therapy for me, but you know what? The people who post for us could be doing other things with their time. Right?
So. See the three letters up there? Nephew II is back from learning special things involved with becoming a Marine. Thought he'd gone AWOL after weeks of silence, but he was away for special training. He writes, y'all. I trained him well while he was here with us. He writes lovely letters. Who knew? He is the only other person in our huge family who writes real letters. Two are addressed solely to me, and the third is addressed to JC and me. Gosh, but I'm good. Oh. Remember the people who entertain and inform us. Don't just try to save snail mail, save the bloggers who write about it, and write to us.
Ahem. A new box of stationery waited on the front porch this afternoon after my return from another head-shrinking session. It was one of two big deliveries this day. The first one was made before I left.
Watercolor has to be the medium used to create these.
I like the muted colors, yet they seem to be understated. An oxymoron? Aha! They are too close in value.
The designs are what got me. I love Moroccan tiles. These designs remind me of the Middle East. The colors are very pretty--much prettier than artificial light lets on.
I like the instructions that came with the labels. They make me laugh. I wish I'd ordered a box to give away as a gift. Since I didn't, I plan to use a single sheet per letter. That way I can spread the rainbow. The goodness. Spread the goodness. Hannibal is on in the background and that throbbing tone does something to my head space. Sorry.
Today was a cold, blustery, rainy one. I caught a chill. A warm quilt and a mug of hot tea saved the day. I intend to write on later. Nothing compares to breaking in a new box of stationery, does it? See you in the mail. Until then . . .