i said i wanted to write so today i went to the library and picked up six books promising to inspire me and clean up my grammar. i suppose this is a bit tardy because nanowrimo started yesterday. november first is like new years day. sobering. its that reminder that a year ago you made the same resolution that you made today...or yesterday, as it is.

i read some of his writing again today and again it touched me. what he was saying about lost relationships is as bittersweet as he presented it to be. so often i tried googling somebody i had last spoken to years ago, sometimes to find them or sometimes to find somebody who's published a paper in some kentucky university. all these social networking websites have made it infinately easier to see if an ex is with somebody else now or if an old friend lost to a boyfriend is finally married. but what does one do with this information? almost never have i been tempted to contact any of these people. it would be too weird jumping from 17 year old relating to 25 year old conversing.

"remember that time we ran out of safeway with 4 bottles of robo and we drank it till we puked pink?"

"yah, and andy's sister told us that if we drank enough it would be like taking acid, but more of a body high."

"did it work for you?"

"i dont know. i just felt really lightheaded - but that could have been me getting really sick."

"jan never knew what she was talking about anyway. she was such a poser."

is that what we're supposed to say now? reminisce about teenage fun while blushing cranberry? being drawn back into catergorizing people as "posers"?

this always makes me feel a bit enstranged from my past. it almost feels like im viewing it from the lense of myspace, distorting teenage memories by introducing present realities. it makes me realize how long its been since i last knew these people. a lot of our predictions were wrong, but some were so right. brent is an actor now. dylan is travelling around the world still. arthur is gay. kristy went to chico and partied and is living at home now. rachael is uber-liberal and living in a co-op.

but what about melody? and jenna? and scott? and andy? and andy? and billy? and alexis?

I've tried for years to keep a journal regularly. I've managed to fail spectacularly each time I tried. My bookshelf is lined with beautiful, handcrafted journals with paper that has just the right texture and lines perfectly spaced. In each of these journals I filled the first ten or so pages dutifully and lovingly. As I caressed each of these pages with my pen, I promised bulging entries filled with passionate writing and spectacular hopes. Each time I started on one of these journals, I abruptly stopped without saying goodbye. Each of the last entries in these journals showed promises of me returning. They were intense, full of unfinished thoughts that I promised to work through next time. Each time my determination flags and instead of writing entries full of profound ideas, I jot down quick notes on the edges of receipts and bills, carpetting my room with a jumble of thoughts. After enough days of wading through these proto-philosophies while suffering papercuts between my toes, I decide that I need to start keeping a journal again. When out, I wander into a stationers and find that perfect notebook again, thinking this time I won't be plagued by it not opening just so and it being too big for my purses. I think that this will be the beginning of my amazing work, but it too suffers the fate of all the others. Again, the cycle repeats itself and another slim space is filled on my bookshelf. Thousands of blank pages are muted there and will never be more than paper that used to be good enough to write on.

Not again! This time I will write to you, audience, and you will keep me honest. I will not be able to close the covers and forget about you, allowing you to collect dust. I will be here and you will hold my hand as I discover my voice.