I finished another semester of school last night. It was approximately 9:22pm. Nothing happened.
No fireworks, no congratulatory knock on my door, no cards or candies, just ... finished.
To celebrate, I washed my face with my new Clarisonic Mia, put on my pajamas, and grabbed my Nook to read a bit of John Dufresne before bed.
Good old J.D. makes a couple of really sweet points in his book, The Lie that Tells a Truth, but I had only downloaded the sample. 61 pages of sample, but I'm still not sure about purchasing the whole shebang.
When one has given away more books about writing than one has written, it might be time to stop reading about writing and start writing. Which brings me to my next conundrum: the unfinished novel.
I started writing my first novel a few months ago. I was on fire. I wrote most of it by hand, doing my edits while I was typing it into Word. I was blazing, I was smoking, I was writing,...and then I wasn't. I don't know what happened to make me stop. It may have been the start of the summer semester rolled around and I got busy with school, but I came to an abrupt halt, packed everything away in a nightstand drawer, and haven't looked back.
Something in me is screaming to start fresh, start over, do something different, because that's me. To a fault. I love starting new projects, but I am horrible at finishing.
To a fault.
Maybe, come November, I'll blow the dust off and see what I've got. Pull out the old red pen, make some marks. Just so I can say I finished. :)
For now, it's off to the pool store to get some pool sand for the filter. Ciao!