Here I Am Again

 Welp, I said I would everyday, just like the old days.  Before...well, everything.

Fall is in the air, my favorite time of year.  I seem to come alive in the Autumn.  I love the yellow, red, and orange leaves.  Days are getting shorter, the sun is a little lower in the sky than it was just a week ago.  

I sit here with one of those canned youtube "ambience" vidoe's of an outdoor harvest/halloween jazz cafe.  I've even fell asleep a couple of times with one of the gentle rain sleep vids.  I have my fairy light tree on.  I try you know.  It's just so easy this time of year.  I love this time of year.  Did I say that already?

I used to write a lot.  A lot.  Now, I find it hard to do.  Putting into words what goes on in my head.  I know it sounds cheesy and cliche', but if I ever really did write my life story, I'd have to write it as fiction because no one would believe it.

I had a huge post that I just accidentally deleted and now I'm sorta pissed, so I'll come back later.  sheesh.

Save your work Mel...save your work.

Another Try

 Another try, another start, another promise, another time.  But isn't that one of the great things about a new day?  A fresh start every day.

Maybe it's weird, but I get inspired by the move "Julie and Julia".  Have you seen that?  I have lot's to say, and nothing to say.  I can blog about that.

A promise to write every day, at least in the beginning.  Don't they say if you do something repetitive every day for 30 days, it becomes a habit?  I think I read that somewhere, or saw it on tv.  

There was a time, well actually off and on most of my life, I journaled.   Before I had even learned to write, I drew pictures of books.  True story.   Most of my life I dreamed of writing a novel.  Even attempted it once, seriously.  I also am in possession of one rejection letter for a short story.  I should actually pull that one out and frame it.  That's assuming I could find it, but I do have it!

So once again, now that I am aged and old in my mid-50's, I find myself with the need to write again.  So much to say, so little to say.  Every decade or so, I gather up all the paper journals, not much so now after computers and all, and destroy them.  If they were electronic, I deleted them.  Who knows this time?