How many new beginnings is a person allotted? One for each new year? New month? New day?
A good story has a beginning, middle, and end, not infinite beginnings. I intend mine to be a good story. I shall not endlessly rewrite the first chapter, seeking its perfection. I shall progress and grow, regress and change.
The new year hands us a blank page, inviting us, daring us, to write our future; and we reach out with eager, childlike hands and giddy minds racing with ideas of all the scribbles we will put on it. But it need not be a new story, merely, greatly, a new chapter. The Old You may be permitted to live in the pages pressed against the new, her ink occasionally bleeding through to touch and taint the crisp new pages.
Old experiences and effigies of character need not be thrown aside to make way for the new. They may be carried along, regarded with equal importance, for their assemblage acts as a pedestal, hoisting you ever higher.
I will hope for this chapter to be a better one, but will not regard it as useless if it is worse.
After many long, dull chapters, I have grown disinterested in my own story. I long to restart, with a fresh page. But a fresh page does not bring with it a fresh heroine. Therefore, I must simply make this one grow.
Simply.
How does one rise to meet a challenge, when the challenge shrinks horizons rather than expanding them? This is my question for this new chapter. If I can find the answer, I am sure I will find with it a greater appreciation for my heroine.
Spilled Inklings 