The Future of The Tempest

I am discovering that I have begun running out of things to write about in this space. For one thing I’ve been doing this for eleven years now. That’s a total of 2,731 posts. I have expressed opinions on practically everything, and on some things, two or three different opinions. I don’t apologize for that. If your views and opinions don’t change over eleven years, you’re probably not paying attention.

But, its getting harder to do. I’ve written a ton about politics, mostly making fun of it. But the past four or five years have so poisoned the well, I’ve lost interest. Nothing I could possibly have to say about politics would be nearly as funny as politics itself. 

I’ve written a lot about sports, especially baseball. Ironically, my interest in sports—even baseball—has waned a bit. The staggering amounts of money being thrown around at athletes has had some sort of cumulative effect that has made the actual games less interesting. I’m not even sure why. I suppose its harder to identify with people who will over their careers earn more money than the the gross domestic product of Haiti.

I’ve chimed in on most of the hot-button social issues that have boiled up over these past eleven years, like gay marriage, abortion, and the designated hitter. I have persuaded nobody.

I’ve written about Maine. For many of you I’ve written too much about Maine. Although I never tire of the subject, at this point there’s repetition. As beguiling as it is, how many different ways are there to describe fog drifting across a glassy lake at sunrise?

I’ve written about my family. I told all of you what it was like to have your mother die in her sleep and to care for your Dad for two years after. I’ve gone on and on about my wife, extolling her many virtues. I’ve bragged about my kids, boasted about my siblings. But I also can appreciate the eleven year sinking pit in Pam’s stomach every time she sees one of my blogposts, wondering what embarrassing thing I’ve said. Sometimes I worry that she might secretly resent being the subject of so much public comment.

I’ve written about my dogs. Murphy, Molly and Lucy have dominated this space, for which I make no apologies. Even my GrandPups, Jackson and Frisco, have gotten plenty of publicity here. The reason is simple. Dogs, unlike practically everything else in this world, are incorruptible.

I feel myself slowing down at The Tempest. Writing fiction seems more fun and more stimulating. That’s where I see my writing headed. Stories.

So, 2023 will bring diminished output here. Instead of my normal 200-250 posts a year, maybe half that— unless some completely insane thing happens that demands my attention.