I'm starting a new journal. Not because I feel the need to start over fresh, escaping themes and preoccupations plaguing the present one, but because said present one is full. Cover to cover. It's a remarkable tome of two very eventful years. And not just hormone-induced "oh, she's a girl" eventful. There's some heavy stuff in there. Fear, death, heartache, anxiety. With joy, risk-taking, fearlessness, infatuation and optimism rounding it out. Some of it almost reads as fiction. I am not the Nadine of 2007. For this, I am thankful. I am moving forward.
Maybe I'll quote from it one day. In short cryptic doses.
I'm hesitant to write the first entry in the new one. I don't know what to say. I feel as though there should be something significant going on in my life or my head before I start to scribble. I don't want the first page to be boring.
I don't want my life to be boring.
I recently discovered Donald Miller. I know, I'm a little slow. And I think I love him. I want to hike up a mountain with him and tell him all my secrets. And then we can sip wine and talk about story and why I desire an epic tale of my own. I crave memorable scenes. Strong characters. I want to be able to define what I want and then pursue it passionately. I want to sacrifice. I want my story to make me a stronger woman in the end. I want my life to read as a redemptive and meaningful narrative.
And as Don and I walk down the mountain, he'll tell me how to get a book deal.