Letters to the Wind

I consider beginning Xcargo the Blog again. I am not quite sure why. It has very little readership…nothing like the following Explosive-Cargo the ezine had…and I wonder sometimes if the whole blog scene isn't on the way out. There was a time when it was the means of self-publishing. But, now, so much of the web has been co-oped by the Great and the Powerful, and smaller voices (like mine) tend to be drowned out.

Yet I begin again. Partly that's simply because I (for once) have the time to do so. The past two years have been busy to say the least. The move here, the days watching my mother in various stages of unconsciousness, dealing with my father's smaller but real health problems, trying to start "the business," these and other things have consumed most of my waking hours.

Now I have a little space to breathe and to write.

But also I begin Xcargo because I wonder if it isn't what I'm made to do. If it isn't what my talent is…assuming I have any talents at all. I wonder if I am the sort of writer known as a "diarist."

Perhaps this is what I am meant to write. Perhaps I am destined to pen these small things, these moments in my life, half remembered, uncertainly told, offered up to a reader who may not exist. Who may never exist.

Well, there are worse callings. There is even something romantic in it. Like the poet who wrote letters to his vanished beloved and cast them to the winds.

To be received… by whom? By no one. By the world. Either one. It makes no difference.