that this fair action may on foot be brought

I had noble intentions of typing up a reflective piece on Tuesday, to mark the entrance into my next year of life. Something totally cliché about how … well how the past few weeks have made me think a bit about fading youth and the unending possibility of each and every day that lies before me. Something like that… but it’s pretty obvious if you choose to see life that way. And if you don’t, well, my words aren’t going to make an impact.

Besides it is one thing to write about reflection and philosophy. To wax poetic about the all too short minutes of every passing day. To smile and declare that I will seize the moment… by typing it on a page… but really… that is still just a part of the ether until it becomes action.

In truth, my birthday was not a day of action. August showed its hazy color and the Leonine inclination for lazing about took over my morning, thwarting intentions of a run. I managed to pry myself away from reading Facebook well wishes long enough to do some weights (man, my arms hurt today) and buy some snackage for my night on Boston Common. But overall, it was a pretty listless, lethargic start to year 35.

Except for three paragraphs. 

I was feeling kind of down about this birthday. Mostly because there seemed to be a lack of accomplishment since the last one. I had no real direction to get me to August 10th this year. And when have I ever? Except last year when I was determined to have readable copy of my novel. I did that. I made several more versions of that copy, tried submitting it… and then some time around May, my writing ambition plateaued.

Which is stupid, really. Writing makes me happy. Like running makes me happy. But like running, I have some dim logic in my head when I fall out of habit and then try to talk myself out of starting up again. One could only hope that such argument would manifest itself in my brain when I’m tempted to eat a gooey, chocolate confection… but that is mindless… and even to some degree emotionless. Running… and writing require the power of the mind and the determination of the heart.

So I decided I would write on Tuesday. At least start. Didn’t get very far. Three paragraphs. But… it was like setting the shovel in the earth and turning over the packed dirt to start the foundation. Something to come back to… when I wasn’t so listless.

But then last night, I was possessed by an even greater indolence. My intentions to empty my brain after a day of audit interviews was thwarted when Netflix delivered a cracked MI-5 DVD. So annoying. And so I dawdled on the laptop with nothing to entertain me until I pulled up that Word document. By midnight, those three paragraphs turned into six pages… and a new project was born.

It’s nothing like the last one. I know I need to work on selling that piece at some point… but I’m aweary of vampires right now… and Lizzie’s story is done in my mind. So onto another thing that entered my head six years ago and has decided that it needs to be a novel. 

So… yeah… I feel a little more grounded with that totally arbitrary denotation of another year in the life. I’m not sure if it is the result of deciding to write or if the writing comes from the balance of my mind. But whatever and wherever it takes me, I know that I’m on the journey again. And isn’t that what they say life is all about?