i'm going to be honest and say that it feels a little bit like clearing my throat, writing here.  you know the feeling, i'm sure, when you haven't used your voice in awhile and you open your mouth to speak, and what comes out is a creaky mess?

like this morning, at five, when dave rolled over complaining about the noisy birds outside our window (curses to our garden!?  never!) and i opened my mouth and croaked.  he had to ask me to repeat myself twice (at five am) before i was able to say, "would you like me to get you some earplugs?"

it feels like that.

when i first started blogging, six years ago, my brother - the poet, the writer, the wise one - asked me who was my audience.  i remember the conversation clearly, on the leather couches in the dining room-turned-playroom in his house in philadelphia at the time, and i replied that i was writing to myself.  it was true, in the beginning - i was my own audience.  but then there were readers and commenters and swaps and do i endorse products? and lists of links and photographs and do i post without photographs? and what is this blog even about anyway? and then my kids were growing up and there was habit and thirty words is really manageable and satisfying a lot of the time, and here i am now, clearing my throat in public.  (so to speak.  because i suspect that it's pretty private here right now anyway.  blissfully so.)

the thing is this.  photographs are good, especially the pretty ones.  and i will always love habit.  but there is something about writing, and something about blogging.  and i don't want to forget that.