I am terrible at keeping this updated. It reminds me of my journals. You know that saying "The pathway to hell is paved with good intentions"? That quote seems to be the standard of my life, flying as my colours in the breezy tropical winds of the Caribbean. I have plans that never eventuate. Lots of them. In fact, it'll be a small miracle you're reading this right now.
During my childhood, for most years at Christmas or my birthday I'd be given a little notebook or journal to write in. According to our religion, record keeping in a journal was something you should get into the habit of. I suppose to immortalise your feelings, aspirations, successes and failings to reflect on. My failings are certainly recorded - my failing to keep a journal.
They would all start out the same. Full of promises to keep a record and all the jazz. I think I managed to keep one for 3 months solid! Of course, I was about 8 at the time... It's been 15ish years since then so I guess my staying power declined considerably after that. They're riddled with grammatical errors and odd spelling mistakes, but they're cute.
There is one journal that I must have received on my 13th birthday as it records my first year of high school...intermittently. Oh the ridiculous drawl. I have to say, my life wasn't dramatic at the time, and I am never one to make a big dramatic scene about who drank my chocolate milk, but you wouldn't know it reading my cliffhanger journal entries. It reads like a poorly written babysitters club novella, full of crushes, trivial issues and secrets ...which I assume is what those books are about. To be honest, I've only read one of them and it happened to be the one about them getting their period or something which put me off them. Or maybe that was a different series. See, publishers? This is why publishing a squadron of books in the same genre with the same colour palette for the covers and the same target audience isn't great. Everyone identifies it with the better known book series
Moving along... If I'd kept writing, the memoirs would have gotten much juicier but I guess I turned 14, headed into my depressive, everything sucks phase of my life of self-deprecation that likes to rear its ugly head into my adulthood every now and then, just to let me know it's still kicking.
This is, of course, a new year and I wasn't foolish enough to make a resolution that I'd not be able to keep. Writing here regularly, though a reprieve and reflection of daily life, is probably too high a goal for me given my history in this field. So I'll just write whenever I want to, without apology or expectation this year. This is the year I make stuff happen in my time - and maybe I'll be a better blogger for it.
So if you're along for the ride this year, don't expect too much. For this blog is less about regularity and more about....something else that ends with ~arity. I don't know. I'm not a poet.
Still here? Fine... here's a picture of a baby sleeping