It's true: I've lost my balls. I hardly know what my current blog statistics are (my husband used to follow this for me and gleefully report it), but for a couple years my readership crept up, and up, and up. It was easy to write and I did it almost daily. I wrote about my own life with no embellishments and no exaggeration. I wrote what I knew. I wrote as if it were my private journal, but also in a concerted effort to communicate to someone else, anyone else reading.
These days I feel stifled; having moved to a small town and feeling less bold, a little shaken by this or that life experience (which I won't belabor here), and I can hardly bring myself to tell the story of my day, or to comment on contemporary politics or the things that chew me up inside. In short, I haven't been writing the way I used to, and the way I found successful. Each entry might expose my naivette, my rudeness, my hick-ignorance. Given as a body of work I feel confident my entries won't sink me, but when my fingers are on the keys these days, timidity sets in.
It's not possible for one to live life without risks, but lately I've been acting like it is.