Not with a bang.

Here is what happened: ten minutes ago, I sat down, placed a hunk of pate and some goat cheese on a plate just next to my laptop, and vowed that I wouldn't touch either until I'd written a post -- any post -- in this languishing space.

When you're bribing yourself with your own lunch to write something, you know things have become somewhat dire.

The list of things I could have blogged about and didn't keeps growing: the appearance of my book's advance reader copies, my thirtieth birthday, a drawn-out drama with a now ex-friend, an impulsive audition for a local production of "The Sound of Music" that netted me a place in the nun ensemble. I mean, really: I spent a month in a nun costume, every single weekend, and it didn't even once occur to me to use the opportunity to come back here, post a photo, and make a "back in the blogging habit" joke.

I think it's safe to say that my muse has left the building.

And even if the muse hasn't, my stat counter indicates that everyone else has. (No, it's fine. I don't blame you.)

Which is, I've come to believe, completely all right. Things change. Things have changed. When I started this site, it was like finding the release valve on a tank so full of pent-up energy that it was ready to explode. I realize now what a moment that was, an actual life-changer, the one I point to when someone says, "When did you know that you wanted to write?". Then. That was when I knew. And I still read over those early entries sometimes. I envy their exuberance, their easy flow. I even wish I could go back there, to the time when I had so much to say and only one place to say it, and recapture that feeling: of a vast reservoir of stories and scenes and little moments that spoke to a larger truth, hundreds of them, all writing their beginnings in an untapped corner of my mind.

But then I think of what I've gained: a novel in production, two others brewing, the chance to do for a living what I used to do for fun. There's only so much fuel in the tank, only so many words at the ready. I realize that I can't have them everywhere and every way -- or, worse, that I could, but that to do it would mean adding this blog to the list of tasks that sits in the righthand corner of the screen on which I type this. Another item with an un-checked box next to it, right there with the daily deadlines, the freelance assignments, the errands to run and chores to do. Another thing I force myself to accomplish before I'm allowed to eat my lunch.

And I really, really don't want that. I don't. I don't want to be a person who would rather strip all the joy out of something to keep it alive, instead of letting it go and being glad for the memories.

And of course, there's also the matter of privacy, and how much I've come to value it in my oh-so-advanced age. The woman who started this blog was unknown, unattached, even anonymous at the start. And as glad as I am to have given her such an unencumbered voice -- I don't regret a single thing I've written in this space -- now, as I inch ever-closer to the public eye, I just want to curl up around the life I've built and shield it from view. I have a lot more to lose than my 24 year-old self, and much less hope of recovering it.

Which brings me to what happens next.
And that, I think, is... nothing.

Pink India Ink will remain where it is, and what it is: an internet treehouse where, for awhile, I stopped by daily to sit and think and scribble on the walls. I won't paint it over. I won't tear it down. I won't even lock the door, so that if you want to, you can come back and visit awhile. I even hope that you will.

But when you do, in all likelihood, the house will be empty. And while I might come back from time to time, it'll be a pleasant surprise rather than a scheduled visit. For me, and hopefully for you. And while I won't be here, I'll still be here -- and if you want to reach me, at another internet address or by email, the sidebar links will always take you there. And yes, I hope you'll do that, too.

If you're still here, thank you for sticking with me. If you're not... well, you're not reading this, so whatever. Also, your mom is a whore.