Summer ending, and email slows down. An email here. An email there. One could quickly feel like Charlie Brown sitting under a mailbox waiting for a Valentine. Narratives of writing often do not take into account the slowing down of writing. The pause. The standing up from the table. The leaving aside for awhile. People write less for awhile even if they are writing more overall. Blog writing, too.  The blog is far from dead, as some may claim. Some blog posts, however, slow down. Isn’t this what the critics want? Slow down all this information, they yell. Pay more attention to a little at a time. The logic of too much, they claim, is antithetical to learning, if not to writing.

Email slows down. Some blogs slow down. The Web, of course, doesn’t. Facebook status updates don’t slow down either. I look right now and a few I see: “I refuse to acknowledge that August is around the corner.” “Laughing Dog Cold Nose, Alpha Dog, Huckleberry Cream and Chocolate Huckleberry Cream Ale all at Boise BeerFest.” “Reads.” “Trying to cut back on updates.” I’m glad that you are updating. I’m glad to hear about what you are thinking and doing. I’m glad that you do not slow down the way my email does. Now, let me check my email once more. Nothing.

The RSS feed running wild is a reminder of activity where email and academic blog postings suggest silence. If I am ever in doubt of the speed of information delivery (as if email is still a digital indicator), and if I want a second opinion to Facebook updates, I can check on an RSS collection of feeds that grows larger with each minute. People are writing! These feed collection of craft beer, food, sports, technology, and so on proves that writing is not slowing down! Look at all that writing! Do I have an email now? No, not yet.

Vered and I got out of the car the other day, and on the way up to the house, we stopped at the mailbox. She reached out and pulled down the mailbox door. Inside, she found a flyer for charitable contributions and a bank statement for her mother. Sometimes, she will find a Netflix DVD or a magazine. Other times, a bill. “It’s a slow day,” I tell her so that she is not disapointed with this meager mail find for the day. “Slow day…” she repeats slowly, sounding out each word as she often does when she hears a new phrase or word. We walk back up to the house slowly, climbing the steep driveway until we reach for the door.