Sometimes one develops a new interest, a passing fancy: breadmaking, say, or salsa dancing, or writing novels. And, like most lovely things in life, soon the urge passes, and calmness reigns once more.
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I am a bad blogger. Actually, I'm no blogger at all; every word I have is currently being poured into either Twitter, my favourite waste of time (perfect for interrupters, perfect for chatty introverts, just...perfect) or my current, fifth, novel. And, secretly, into another secret book, which arose out of HINT something I've posted on this very website.
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