Some days, it seems that everyone has a blog. That is, everyone except my family and friends, who look at me quizzically when I suggest that to be the case. I've resisted blogging, while enjoying blogs written by a myriad of strangers. Blogging seemed to require that you had something necessary to say, and I never did.

Today it occurred to me that the act of blogging itself might change how I feel about what I say. I used to write for money; I teach people how to write. But I'm not passionate about those things. Passion seems to me to be the engine that drives writing to where other people might care the proverbial rat's ass about it.

So, what am I passionate about? My kids, predictably enough. Things 1 through 4 are why I get up in the morning (and, too often, during the night as well) but I don't feel that they need to be out in cyberspace. What kind of conversation can I have with, oh, anyone with an internet connection? What passions are shareable? In my case, I can think of only two. I like to knit, an dI like to read. Am I an expert on either? No. But these activities are what I long to do, in any spare time I have from the work of my life. Eventually, I hope to make them more into the work of my life, when my family is more able to take on the work of theirs.

So, books and knitting. Books about knitting. Knitting while reading. Reviews of any book I feel like commenting on.

We'll just have to see how it goes.