Okay, so obviously I've been beyond bad at keeping up on here. In a nutshell: We're all a little older, all still alive. The end.
Well, not the end. I've been feeling the urge to actually do better at this. I need to write; it's just part of who I am. And yet, the novel is still stalled at the 5000 or so words it has been almost since I started it almost 15 years ago. (That's FIFTEEN years. Not believable, and yet, true.) The story is there in my head, jumbling around with two other solid ones and several more wisps. But why don't I write?
Fear. I am nothing if not chicken. Fear that I can't make it long enough to actually be a novel. Fear that people will not like the plot, or the characters, or my vocabulary or...me. The few people whom I've actually had the nerve to show it to like it, but they are my friends, so they don't count. (No offense, friends. You know what I mean.)
At any rate, maybe if I just make some time to write something (in other words, this blog) on a fairly regular basis, I will get some courage.
So here we go.
Teacher, mom, writer, coach...too much to do, too little time. One day I'll write that novel. And one day my house will be clean. With all the unfinished projects I have, I won't die until I'm 293. Now, can someone tell me please, where did I leave my brain?
