I will, at some point in my life, sit down and begin the book that's been itching to present itself since my teenage years. Each year I commit myself to allowing the process to evolve. Each year ends and I sit, incriminating myself with guilt for not beginning. Has this year been any different? Yes and No.
Although I have yet to start my novel, I have added a wealth of life experiences and delightful personalities to its forthcoming pages. More than any other year of my life I am listening as I journey to confront and forgive myself. Hearing an unfamiliar, yet attractive voice from within has encouraged me to continue on this wonderful path of discovery. I see traces of the former me...flailing in the background, praying to be allowed on this journey. With courage and a wealth of faith, I deny it entrance. It takes work. I'm doing the work and journalling as well. So I guess that would be considered writing. If so, I've been writing this book since fifth grade. Oh the wonders of life...
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