Trudge, trudge, trudge

At Nikki's insistence (ok, it was more like a scolding - completely earned on my part, I might add) I have busted out the uber personal, and uber marketable, novel I've been placing on a shelf for a while.

The problem with a memoir type of book is that while writing it, you feel all of those emotions again. Not with the intensity they were initially felt with, of course, but with all that's passed between then and now, a mixture of sadness and regret has filled the area between. Not true regret, per se, but an odd sense of mourning not only what's been lost, but the potential that was squandered.

I've meant to work on it, I really have, but other projects have sprung up. Nudged themselves to the front of the line. And real life, that whore, has had her fair share of my time. So I've dusted it off, and I'm working on it right now, trying to finish up an important portion. However, I keep forgetting exactly where I am in the structure of things. It's one thing to live day to day and look at a calender, it's another entirely to map out the story of your life in something that resembles a plot, and put push pins on the dates. So I get lost, "Did that happen then? No, that was Christmas."

But I am trudging through. Finishing the portion that has held me back for a few months, pushing through it. Checking back and reading bits and pieces, remembering how good the book actually is.

Man, books that are entirely fiction are soooo much easier.