A little over three years ago, I printed out the final pages of a non-fiction book I had been trying to write for 25 years or more, and had finally found the time and the courage to tackle once I was retired.

But the manuscript lay gathering dust, for reasons I won’t go into here.

I found, though, that I missed the writing; so I started this blog — a sort of autobiographical serial at first, then branching out into commentaries on international affairs, and even a few attempts at humor. As the daily news grew more and more imperative, so did my urge to comment on it. I wasn’t writing for profit, and I never expected my little blog — even though I posted it on Facebook — to go viral . . .

. . . which it didn’t, and that was fine. My viewership grew a bit, and I enjoyed knowing that someone out there was aware of my existence, and found relevance in what I had to say.

Lately, though, it has all begun to feel like more of a burden than a pleasure — like Marley’s ghost plodding through eternity, dragging the chains that he had forged in life. Only these are not my chains.

The problem is not the amount of time it takes to read, research and write; I have plenty of available hours during the day for all of that. But the subject matter — the constant barrage of horror stories emanating from every nook and cranny of the globe — has become like a personal dark cloud hanging over my head, invading my sleep at night and filling my days with the little “ding!” of yet another news alert from my phone.

And now, instead of raging against it as I have been doing — using the writing as a sort of catharsis — I find myself wanting to disconnect from it, and trying to search for something that will instead bring me a measure of comfort and peace.

So maybe I’ll attack that “to-be-read” pile of books in the corner, or binge-watch my DVDs of the entire series of “The West Wing.” (Now, there was a presidential administration to aspire to!) Or I might even get back to work on a book of my own — either to finish the first one, or plunge into something entirely new and different. I don’t know yet; but I’m sure I’ll think of something.

In the meantime, I want my handful of loyal readers to know that, if you don’t see any posts from me for a while, I’m not ill . . . just taking a mental-health break. I’m sure I’ll be checking in from time to time; old habits are hard to break.

*. *. *

P.S. It suddenly occurs to me, as I sit here contemplating my present mood and my future direction: Maybe there really is such a thing as “Trump Derangement Syndrome,” and I’ve caught it!

That would certainly explain a lot.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/23/26