I am (for the most part) resisting the urge to wax poetical about starting a blog--namely how the surfeit of color, font, layout, and background choices leave you no longer remembering how you were going to wittily yet soulfully justify your new blog's existence.
I've started blogs before, and the creation of a new one should tell you how successful I've been at the upkeep. But I used to call myself a writer, and I miss it (whether I miss the writing or the identity is anyone's guess). And while the grand plans of bestsellers and book signings are (largely) behind me, I still crave the feel of words finding their way from my mind and out through my fingers, because Facebook statuses and work emails just aren't cutting it.
I tried to procrastinate further by pulling several books (my Bible, Mere Christianity, half my Donald Miller collection) from the shelf in the search for a title; and, amusingly, found it on the first page I turned to: in the intro blurbs of Miller's A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. I had underlined it when I'd first read the book, and all manner of paging through the others I'd pulled didn't draw me away from it. After some lovely words about Don, Steve Duin of The Oregonian writes, "His premise will haunt you until you set out to discover if memorable lives, like unforgettable books, often require several drafts and a loving editor."
And I suppose that's the justification; that while there's nothing huge and momentous about today, I do have the feeling of going through a change of drafts; like a pretty serious copyedit has just been returned to me, with some things question-marked and others highlighted, and I wanted somewhere to write about it.
So here goes.