Lately, the constant struggle between the need for privacy and the need for release through writing has been tilted strongly toward the "need for privacy" end of the spectrum. The end result: sporadic entries, many about Quarto, and relatively few about the actual events taking place in my life.

Is everything okay? Yes. Surprisingly so, actually; not only has life been quiet, but life's been good.Some things fall under the realm of "none of your damn business," and journal writers are often the most guilty of forgetting this rule. We—or, at least, I—find both release and comprehension in the act of writing about life as it happens. It's often far too easy to turn the discretion filter to 'off' and write about everything, regardless of repercussion or consequence.

Lately, I've gone in the opposite direction. I haven't wanted to share, even though I know most of the people reading this site are personal friends of mine. It's not terribly different from the five-year-old with a favorite toy who doesn't want to share it with anyone else, because it's obvious (to her, anyway) that sharing it would do nothing but lessen her enjoyment of it.

Like that. A little selfish, but not entirely. The words I write on 'cat.net are sometimes cryptic, but sometimes very, very revealing about the emotional tone and timbre of my life. I described it previously as jealousy, and perhaps at heart it is, but I like to think of it more in terms of protectiveness.

My rule for writing for this site: live first, write second. If I'm jumping from day to day thinking about what I'm going to write here, and letting those ideas and plans dictate the structure of my life, then I'm dangerously akin to the diary writers I like to describe as "attention whores"—those who use the online prostitution of their lives to fill the empty spaces of their souls. As long as I am using my writing to comment and illustrate what I've been seeing, instead of wearing it like a corrective lens while going about my life, I've got things in the right order.

For now, I'm living. There are dishes in the dishwasher, a cat somewhere around here that wouldn't mind a cuddle, and a spouse (with whom I had a long and lovely chat with tonight) who is quietly sifting down into sleep.

Ah, there's Edmund now, ready for his cuddle.

I'll be visiting with more friends next week, and making raspberry jam. There are shelves to hang, new furniture to wrestle into place, and piles of stuff to tend to.

In other words, life. It's being lived.

I won't call this a hiatus, because the surest way to guarantee that I do a lot of writing in the next few days is to say that I'd like to take a break for a few days. Consider it an explanation of silences past, and potential future silences.

Besides—the chances of shutting me up are about nil at this point.

For now, life calls.