Tentative Beginnings

It still seems so adult to me, so strange to say "I've had a rough year." It doesn't seem like I should say that; only men wearing overalls or women with fake fruit on their tables say that. Yet it seems like the only accurate description for a blank section of time that one feels is almost behind. I'm looking forward to the time when I can say "oh, that was a rough year" casually, almost flippantly, with the buoyancy which only a number of happily spent (not perfect, just happy in one way or another) years can give.
Anyway, that's not the real reason for me writing. I write, as I did before, not because I expect anyone to read it, nor because I expect the world to ooh and aah over my carefully crafted sentences, but because i'm selfish and secretly enjoy the sound of my own literary voice. Also, with a blog one can succumb to the illusion that somebody else MIGHT read it, and therefore regular posting could be necessary to maintain that invisible and non -existant audience. I'm taking a writing class right now - the instructor says that blogging is good for you if you like to "churn something out on a regular basis" and "are ok with putting unpolished work out there." He didn't say it as negatively as that might seem on paper but honestly enough its true. But i need the practice so i'll try it again for a bit - God help you if you stumble across a page which is more or less scribble in a nice readable 12 point font.