It’s not you. It’s me. I’m the one who left you here, wondering why the web’s wordiest camera nerd suddenly went so silent. Okay, so maybe you weren’t wondering, but the fact is my dedication to this once sacred space has withered beyond words. Why? Well, I fell on black days. The details of such don’t belong on a blog best known for ‘Schmuck Alerts’, but I feel strangely compelled to let my few remaining readers in on why I went away. Several months ago, the Missus and I began to experience ‘Technical Difficulties’ and as a result, I nearly came unplugged. I’m a little better now, but we are far from well. In fact, we no longer share the same address. The rest is, how do you say, none of your business.

Just know that your friendly neighborhood lenslinger has been shaken to the core and, after months of introspection, has decided to stop referring to himself in the third person. So bear with me as I pull myself out of this thickening morass and get back to kicking ass. Once upon a time, sharing my thoughts here felt like a blessing. In the past year, it’s turned into a curse. I’m reminded of a moment I shared with best-selling author Jerry Bledsoe many years ago. A local celebrity of sorts, the highly successful crime writer read Greensboro’s many blogs and hated most of them. To me, he was more generous. “You’re a pretty good writer, Stewart.” he said. “Expect it to bring you years of misery.” I chuckled nervously at the remark, not really understanding what the old man meant. Truth is, I still don’t. But as my life zigs where I thought it would zag, I can’t help but remember that day. Whether it brought me misery or bliss, I don’t think Jerry would have wanted me to stop writing.

So I’m not. Gonna stop. Writing. To continue doing so would be to further deny my DNA. For better or worse, it’s just the way my brain works. And frankly, I’m tired of apologizing for that fact. Thus, I hereby declare this once vibrant site newly open for business. With more than a little effort, I can work up the momentum to deliver on it’s original promise: ‘Pithy Epistles from the Thinking Man’s Photog’. Of that, I’m quite capable – once I pry my head out of the proverbial oven. As for my sucking chest wound, let’s just ignore it, shall we? Spare me the marital advice, the Bible verses and the elastic maxims. Do that for me and I’ll try to keep the woeful bales to a minimum. After all, that’s not what you come here for…

When you come here at all.