For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved writing. But only the types of writing that allow me to be creative. I usually write novels…but I can never finish them. You see, finishing is not my strong suit. I always start something out with full intentions of being successful and completing it. But then something always gets in the way and I either purposely disregard it or get distracted and forget all about it. And that doesn’t just apply to books that I work on either.
My life these days seems to just be a series of mistakes, and disregarded papers causing clutter in a white room with bare walls and cold non- carpeted floors. Yet somehow, it works. It all flows and coincidentally is starting to connect. Like puzzle pieces, except there’s no picture to guide where each piece will go and fit.
If I am to be completely honest, I don’t know where I’m going here. This was a spur of the moment decision to journal about my reality and call the mess a memoir. Maybe it will lead to organization in my life, somehow. Or maybe it’ll just end up in the corner with my many discarded and unfinished manuscripts. I guess we’ll just see as we go along.
So heres to another beginning.