Eyes Bigger Than . . . Well My Eyes

I hate skimming books for research instead of emerceing myself in every detail and digesting them slowly.

I hate passing books that look interesting in the bookstore without even reading the back.

I hate returning books to the library unopened to avoid late fees.

I hate turning in work I know could be better if I'd had another day to edit.

I hate only reading two or three blogs before I realize I have to be somewhere.

I hate sitting down in front of the computer and, instead of getting lost in the words wiggling out of my fingers, keeping my eyes on the clock and panicing when I see how low my word count is.

I hate only giving a sentence or two of commentary instead of anylizing line by line.

It may be time for me to do less in order for me to do more.

The Old Pages

I write everything in my journal. Well maybe not everything. I gave up on the long accounts of how my day went after High School but my journals are filled cover to cover with To Do Lists, facts I want to remember, notes for research, pieces of dreams I want to do something with, coffee stains, plans for the restaurant I want to some day open, the bookstore I want to own, phone numbers, first drafts of chapters, story outlines, poetry that will never see the light of day, directions to the doctor's office and anything else that my mind is too small to hold but I want to some day remember.
My current journal has only one empty page left. I don't want to write on it.
I carry my journal with me everywhere. When I can't remember something I know it is in those pages if I can take the time to finger through them. As thrilling as the sight of empty pages, yet to be filled, will be after I finally use that last page I know I will feel like I've lost a body part for a few days. I always do. I will reach for my bag to pull out my journal and double check . . . no wait. That was in my old journal, which I left at home, on my bookshelf, collecting dust. Many of the ideas immortalized in there will be discarded after all and I will never think of them again.
Before I fill that last page I must remind myself of the excitement of holding two hundred blank pages in my hand, practically begging me to write whatever I want on them. I must remind myself of the space and freedom new thoughts and new things to remember will give me. I must remind myself that the old can not be relevant unless they teach us where to go with the new.
Still, I think I will miss the old pages.