Winter is officially over, so it seems. Unofficially, the Wisconsin springtime can’t seem to make up its mind. The weather has been sporadically sunny and foggy, warm and cold, but I am very, very happy that the cold North winds have slowed their relentless brigade.
Spring has traditionally been a time of new beginnings, and of dusting out the old. Last night, while reading Stephen King’s Bag of Bones, I felt inspired… no, compelled, to write. I’ve had intentions of writing a book about my life for a long time, and I never took any concrete steps toward realizing that goal… until last night. I wrote about a paragraph until sleep’s weight conquered my eyes. I’ve got a long way to go.
My fear is this: I am a great one for starting projects, but I’m not the best at finishing them. I’ve been working on my CD for a couple of years now, and I don’t see an end in sight. Will this writing project be a similar story? I hope not. The best I can do is chip away at all of these projects, and hope that my efforts aren’t futile. When I was a kid, I once wanted to be an author. I don’t think that desire ever went away.