The evolution of blogging

After blogging for almost 15 months now I sometimes fear that I have become incapable of allowing a single thought, no matter how inconsequential, to go unexpressed.

If it seems that the writing in this space has been lighter, fluffier and more inconsequential lately, please forgive me. I seem struck by the notion that perhaps there is value in holding things to my chest, in just letting thoughts swirl around in my brain so the weak ones eventually die a natural death, as opposed to beating every one of them to death and exposing their mangled corpses here on the internetz.

In days past blog posts were everywhere. I never left home without my camera and delighted in Graham's antics not just for the sheer joy of them but also for the fodder I was already imagining they would provide. Every tiny notion that popped into my head, every fleeting question and flash of insight was seized and tortured until I had extracted all of its secrets and every last breath of its essence.

I was like a mad gardener, heaping fertilizer (sometimes literally, alas) on every kernel, determined to make it blossom into a piece of writing . I nurtured every tiny seed so carefully that they inevitably flowered, though I rarely allowed myself the luxury of critiquing or learning from what I had managed to create.

Some of the results, if I do say so myself, were quite lovely.

But there are times when I cringe just a little at the narcissism implicit in my ongoing compulsion to tweak and broadcast my navel gazing to the world. And I wonder if basking in the feedback my writing has generated has become just a little too addictive.

I am a parent who has always felt strongly that a child's daily life need not be over scheduled or over analyzed. I believe that every activity need not be a means to an end, every conversation should not be fraught with meaning and that constantly turning daily decisions into "teaching moments" is tiresome and unnecessary.

And yet here I am. Ouch! - the irony hurts.

At the end of the day, I guess my love affair with this blog is a love story just like every other.

During first six months I was breathless with excitement. I thought about DMD constantly and couldn't wait to put the day away so we could settle into our exclusive evenings together.

For the next six months I strove to keep up the excitement. People were noticing me and it was wonderful, but it also caused me to labour over what had previously been effortless. I checked my traffic stats at least daily and investigated a million and one cheap fixes to keep things fresh - social networking sites, memes, etc. etc.

Fifteen months in I've become tired. If a relationship's meant to last, it shouldn't feel like so much work. I have said before that I believe in the poignancy of the mundane and I do - I believe that the beauty of everyday life provides endless fodder for inspiring writing.

But it is exactly that belief that causes me to not want to work quite so hard at documenting it. My life is beautiful: I don't need to slap high heels and makeup and a pretty dress on it and trot it out every night so all the world can see and applaud.

I am not shutting down Don Mills Diva, though the thought has crossed my mind lately. I have, however, decided to write less often and let my muse, not my sense of obligation or my stats, dictate when it's time to post.

I cannot continue to maintain this site with the frenzied passion of a new lover. I can only hope the relationship between my readers and I is mature enough to survive the inevitable evolution of our affair.