I woke up this morning thinking I have to blog.

I have time. I have things I can blog about — there are always things to blog about. But none of my ideas feel quite ready yet, for one reason or another. And I don’t really feel like blogging.

The only thing I can motivate myself to blog about is my lack of motivation to blog.

I’m re-reading what I’ve written so far and looking at these words: blog, blogging. Blog, blogger, bloggety-blog-blogged. Blog sounds like smog and blag and bog and fog.

I remember now why it took me so long to start calling myself a blogger: Because it’s kind of a stupid word.

Lately I’ve been blogging about once a week, which is fine. The beauty of blogging, as I tell other people all the time, is I can do it whenever I like, about whatever I like, as much or as little as I like. But once a week is below my average for the past couple of years.

Last year I was a blogging machine, posting at least twice a week, usually three times or even four. If I wasn’t writing a blog post or obsessively checking my blog stats — which were, I confess, higher than ever before — I was out doing something exciting that I would ultimately blog about. I didn’t waste much time participating in non-bloggable activities.

Heather on End StreetTaking photos on a rooftop, which is always a bloggable activity. (Photo: Mark Straw)

Every time I published a post I would feel a rush of adrenaline, re-reading what I wrote and waiting for the web traffic and Facebook likes and comments to roll in.

But in hindsight, I was pretty depressed last year. I was blogging to fill a void. If blogging is work — which it kind of is but also not really, I’m never sure — then last year I was a workaholic.

I’m a lot happier this year. I’ve been having fun doing things that — gasp — aren’t related to my blog. Like sleeping in, for example. Or going out dancing at night in places that are too dark to take good photos and aren’t even visually interesting enough for an Instagram story.

I haven’t been checking my blog stats obsessively because: a) My traffic has gone down, because I haven’t been blogging as much; and b) I don’t really care.

I must care a little bit though. Because right now I am forcing myself to write this post.

Okay I do care. And while I’m really enjoying having fun and not blogging as much, it scares the shit out of me because I’ve been writing this blog for eight freaking years and I’ve published 859 posts (860, if you count this one) and sometimes I wonder how long I can keep it up. My readers are depending on me to blog all the time and constantly discover new, quirky, more interesting things for them to read about and do. (At least they’re depending on me in my own mind. It’s also possible they don’t really give a shit.)

What if I run out of ideas? What if people just stop reading blogs, or just stop reading this blog, or what if my blog crashes and it all disappears and I never meant to make this my job but it is kind of my job and actually my whole life, which means my whole life is a job but not a job, and what does it all mean anyway.

If 2Summers ceased to exist, would I cease to exist too?

Heather and a stuffed giraffe
Deep thoughts with a stuffed giraffe. (Photo: Fiver Löcker)

Some Sunday morning thoughts from a blogger, which is kind of a stupid word.

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