What begins as a noble effort to stick to a regimen of regular writing may, in the end, have the same fate as my past attempts at stick-with-it-ness when it comes to writing.
A few of years ago, my lovely dad passed the role of family record keeper to me. He gave me a black bag full of family records - which he still stores at my parents' house - and a red, leather, bound standard diary. Once a day, he told me, write down what happened.
The diary has college-ruled pages and one date per page, with a few pages at the back for notes. Whenever I look at those narrow lines, I picture my dad's perfect, pencil-written script. Always a mechanical pencil. My handwriting is legible - barely - and I've always had trouble keeping my pen within the lines. Always a pen. Blue ink.
I buy a new red diary every January with a new resolution to write a few lines about what happened in our lives each day. And every January first, I end the day with a diary entry.
I rarely make it into March. Sometimes, around mid-June or July, I decide to try again. This valiant attempt to resurrect my promise to my dad doesn't last more than a week.
But I still go to OfficeMax or Staples every December to buy a new red diary. Sometimes I even buy a special pen (special, as in it comes in its own package and isn't one of twenty-four).
So, as I embark on this renewed attempt at cataloging the bits and pieces of my somewhat vanilla life and my journey toward published authorship, I shall promise myself one thing: at least once a week, I will log onto this blog and spew a few thoughts. Who knows what the various topics will be...at this point, it's anyone's guess.
