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.