I never finish anything.
I never do.
I started this by trying to pick a font. I stopped, I checked my emails, resumed writing this, I decided again that the font was not to my liking, I stopped to check Facebook and halfway through that I realised I did not like the things I wrote here (aka a sentence and a half), so I got back here, though ‘My God, what a terrible font’ and then proceeded to finally change it, after looking intensively at my nails. And erase the poor poor sentence and a half.
So I never really finish anything.
Chances are, I won’t even stick to this blog.
But who the hell cares.
See, I recently discovered the diary I kept when I was a teenager (that is, years 1999 to 2006).
Actually, sometime before that I uncovered, buried under a pile of old books, the diary I kept when I was a child. It was a hilarious discovery of spelling mistakes and early childhood anecdotes, a few attempts to write a novel (two siblings go on an adventure in a pirate island where trees provide you with the food you need aka the salad tree gives you salad, the chicken tree that grew grilled chicken and, last but not least, the sauce tree, which grew sauces – what a flimsy thing it must have been) and some disturbing, disturbing drawings. Apparently I was very taken with the naked human body. I intend to get back to this in future entries.
However, when I discovered my old diary I was taken aback with a couple of things. For one, my spelling was impeccable. For a ten year old, I had the vocabulary and spelling abilities of a 15 year old. I was also surprised because I clearly saw a journey of a child blossoming into a very, very dramatic teenager.
And I also noticed a pattern.
A pattern of not finishing things. Ever.
I always started doings things. Very eagerly, if I may say so. I always started writing a short story or a novel (in my mind, an epic saga, but I shall dwell on that in another entry* – hell, something to look for) and then I would never finish it. I didn’t even finish writing the diary (who ever does? When did people ever finish writing a diary? Maybe in Victorian times? What constitutes the ending of a diary? Death? From consumption? From childbirth?), and I distinctly remember struggling to put down entries as the years progressed.
Anyways, I will start this, very eagerly as per use, and my aim is to (I am writing down my aims, as if this is a business plan. It is not. It’s a memo) write down things I like, books I like, myself, and try, oh, really try to finish something.
How does one finish a blog anyways? Death from consumption?
Tips are always welcome.
*Spoiler alert: it’s a cross section between shit Charmed and very very shit Tolkien.