To new beginnings . . .

My previous attempts at prolonged, sustained writing have failed. Every last one. I have never kept a diary longer than few months, and by a few months I mean 4 or 5 days of feverish writing separated by month-and-a-half long pauses; and from what I hear that is quite unusual for a young lady of a my age.

The first blog I ever started was a group one, I think because I was worried that I wouldn't have enough to say on my own. I soon found that the people I had chosen to collaborate with either had much more to say than everyone else or nothing to say at all, leaving me with a blog run mostly by two members, who were pretty good friends and soon decided they could bounce ideas around without the added hassle of having to use spell - check.

This first foray into the blogosphere was born out of my increasing with frustration with the inadequate length of time left for discussion in an interesting class I was taking. I wanted to write the things I never had the time to say . . . difficult to do when the people you're working with are not reading the same things you are. This next attempt is a little different. For one thing, I am being a lot more honest with myself; and for another, the inspiration behind it is nothing like that for the first. I don't want to hold witty cyber - discussions with people I know about things I have seen or heard; I want an outlet for something I cannot as yet name.

I recently found a book on my roommate's desk containing letters written by successful women (such as Maya Angelou, Queen Noor, and Madeline Albright) to their younger selves. Reading the first few letters highlighted something that I have been grappling with a lot lately - the fact that nothing in life is certain, and that one often cannot possibly conceive what the future holds in store. Some people might find this concept exciting; I do not care for it. I like to have as much certainty in life as I can possibly attain, and the amount of time I spend studying train schedules each time I have to take a trip is testament to this fact. Yet even in my few years on this crazy planet, I have come to discover that the things I worry myself sick over turn out to be inconsequential in the light of subsequent problems or triumphs, and I can never quite figure out what I was so scared of in the first place.

The purpose of this blog then, is not to find myself - that would imply that something, some or all of me, was somehow misplaced, and this is not so - but to leave behind a trail of some sort, with breadcrumbs or broken bark, whatever it is trails are made with these days; something to remind me of where I've been and what I've done and what I've have seen and heard and provide some insight for whatever new and seemingly insurmountable obstacle I happen to be trembling before. That said, I do not intend to start another diary/journal. I think I'm too old for that now and I have never managed to see the use of recounting the day's events to myself . . . I was there, is that not enough? I neither assume, dear reader, that you want to hear all about every last happening of my life. For the most part, it isn't that interesting. I do hope that you will enjoy reading some of my thoughts, and perhaps even be moved enough to leave the occasional comment. Otherwise, this will serve as my letter to myself: long, wordy, and perhaps somewhat repetitive, but always just a little bit wiser than before.