Somewhere in the deeper recesses of my mind I must really want to put forth a creative literary masterpiece. I say that “I must” because why else on God’s green earth (or brown if you’re minding the drought news), would I mention in my “Final, Final” list of adventures for this year that I would write a book?  No, seriously, why?

Let’s jump back a minute. I have written a book. A small little piece of historical truth one might use if one was, say, a tourist at Pearl Harbor and the surrounding historical sites.  I wrote a guide. It was itty-bitty, and it was all consuming and cost me hours of headache and pain – and I wasn’t even in love with it. That all said, it was a major accomplishment and taught me more than I could possibly have given to the reading public. It is still hard to imagine why I thought that in just one short year I could jump back in to the bewildered writers pool and write a book, again?

About what, I ask you? What book shall I write?  – Because your guess is as good as mine.

Now, a whole lot of this blog’s intention is to stretch me out of my comfort zones. One of the zone boundaries is the place where I throw myself at only those projects that equal almost no chance of rejection.  I have friends, dear friends who tell me I am “so brave,” “so multi-talented.” These same pals applaud me and coax my ego and make me feel for just a moment that maybe my life isn’t all that boring after all, and that I’m not totally crazy.  I also have a laundry list of encounters with people who maybe aren’t my closest friends who say things to me more in the vein of “my, don’t you jump around jobs,” or “you’ve sure worn a lot of hats.” While the later two statements don’t sound exactly malicious, they are always delivered with that edge of disgust that comes from someone encountering a person or culture they just can’t see themselves as.  I scare them.  I scare them because my bouncing about, throwing myself at new projects looks schizophrenic (and sometimes it is), and because I’ve not really committed to one thing and one thing only and mastered it, like tax accounting or medical filing. I’m creative I guess, and I’m not quite comfortable with that enough to feel secure, and they’re not comfortable with it at all.  Maybe, just maybe, they (those doubters) worry that their strict view on success in life has them missing out on a bit of creativity? Probably though, they look at me and see a chaos that reflects something that scares them in their own life.  I totally sympathize with that.

 Never-the-less, here is this self challenge of writing a book – a book of my own creation. Will it be fiction, will it be biography? Will it be a creative bust? And, most importantly, where do I begin?