"It seems to me that, when you were in Australia, you blogged a lot more about how you felt about things."

I might have blushed if I weren't so sad about it.

I know it to be true. And I also lament it. But it's not something you can force.

I shrugged. "I had more time to think about it."
And I mean that in every sense.

More time to think about what I was doing. More time to think about how I felt about it and the people around me and consider how things affected me. I had more detachment from everything as it unfolded like a story around me. I had the sense that I had to remember it all very clearly or it would all get away from me; that if I didn't document every chance conversation, every slant of sunshine, every splash of wave, it would be like it had never happened.

I was obssessed. Even in the midst of a great experience, I was thinking about how I would write about it.

And then I actually had the lulls. When I didn't speak to anyone. When I didn't have to clean the bathroom or visit a friend or finish that big project. When there was really nothing else to do but think about things that had happened. And think about why they mattered. And ponder the correct choice of wording.

Writing takes time.
Good writing takes time. And a sense of inspiration pulled from everything around you.

And these are two things that I fall consistently short of these days.
To the detriment of something I love very much.