A Sunday Kind of Love

I promise you, I was going to quit.  I told myself I was gone for good.  I would no longer offer myself up for complaint, disgrace, discredit, and general criticism.  I have become repetitive, I've told myself.  The pictures, the whining.  It is not that I am the only one who is, but perhaps there are not so many who are every day.  EVERY DAY!  What am I getting for it?

Things were going well.  They were.  They were going fine.  And then. . . I don't know, I watched the numbers fade.  People just fell away.  Perhaps it was the season.  It didn't matter.  I have a tender heart.

Then I got this from a woman I shot with a few days ago.

I've sat here on what you call endless time, reading your blog. It's an addiction, I'm forcing myself to close my computer and take a shower.

And that, I guess, is all it takes.  A sweet compliment, a new reader.

It is not just the writing and the photos, of course.  It is everything else as well, the holidays, birthdays, Valentine Days. . .

It is Sunday.  Dinah Washington (link) and Etta James (link) can tell it.

O.K.  I'll just struggle on.  Do your worst.