And I don't know why I haven't.
Mom got me a book for Christmas. It's a book of stories by an Internal Medicine resident. I started it and then I put it down. I like reading the stories. But I wish I could put together something like that of my own. It would mean something to me, to know someone cared enough to buy it.
Doing some LJ-rearranging; I may be moving the meat of this journal elsewhere - somewhere that doesn't have quite the networked identity that this one has, somewhere where I'm not bombarded by service status changes every few weeks. I don't quite know yet. I made a new journal on blogspot with a pretty new name that I liked; I'm in the process of copying all 1200+ LJ entries over to a backup on blogspot (just a journal duplication, for now). I stared at the blank new journal with its pretty new name, and I thought.
I should write something.
And I can't. Instead, I've been reading journal entries from years back, and I'm amazed at how this has evolved. Go back to the early-medical-school entries - in 2002 - and then come back to 2008 and read them. It's a different voice. Somewhere along the line I stopped talking to myself and started talking to someone else.
I like it better that way. It's certainly more interesting for me to read. But I've hit a wall, suddenly, staring at the pretty new blank journal. It reminds me of when everything was in notebooks, and I filled an old one, and I got out a new one (I have an extensive collection of blank notebooks) and stared at it, afraid that I would write something that wasn't worthy of being written down.
I have an extensive collection of notebooks which I have filled with things and probably many of them didn't need to be written down, but in the end it didn't matter, did it?
For New Years, O Best Beloved, I resolve to stop asking for someone else's approval for everything I do.