Handful of you might still remember how in 2003 I began to write a book. The kind that got me, the self-proclaimed writer, all excited and you, the innocent bystander also known as a friend, sick of hearing about it. Two years went by and I got as far as the first draft before life had more important things for me to do. I still do, but it dawned on me that this would be something I’d regret eventually on my death bed if I didn’t get around to finish what I started.
It has been eight years since I began and I’ve used pretty much all the excuses from “the dog (or in my case cat) ate my homework” to “I’m chronically sleep deprived as it is”. I feel yet another batch of excuses forming in my brain, which I intend to keep at bay with this blog. The prospect of public humiliation should (at least in theory) keep me working and hopefully improve what I write.