April 23, 2008;

The beauty of blogging means I can write this ahead of time and schedule it to post at a specific time so I'm not still feverishly typing through the pivotal moment instead of celebrating it. Bad timing runs in my family. Of course, at said specific moment, I shall not be celebrating, I shall be studying. Or watching Jonathan Creek. It's fifty-fifty really.

So, while I was battling against The System a couple weeks ago for access into my old computer, I found the original Word document of The Manuscript, with the start date still contained in the properties. This was rather exciting, as I thought I'd lost that date forever, and if you know me well you know I'm all about the dates, and even more than that, I'm all about The Manuscript. So this was a double manna. And the guess I mentioned before about the 28th? Wrong. The actual date I embarked on The Great Novel Writing Expedition, was; April 23, 2008 at eight-ten and thirteen seconds. And so, tomorrow, (or now, I guess, since I'm writing from the past and y'all are reading in the future), marks the three year anniversary.

Now, without allowing myself to digress into a nitty-gritty in-depth examination on the psychological processes behind blogging, I will say this and risk being a hypocrite: I am well aware nobody else out there, reading this, gives two figs about the precise date and time I started writing something that, never mind is still unpublished, but is, as yet, unfinished. But that's cool, because, even though I am posting this to the Blogosphere, it's mainly just a post to myself. I am essentially talking to myself over the internet. I just kind of want to commemorate this occasion in some indelible way that isn't in the same noxious and isolated vicinity as my diary!

This kind of time-tag makes you look backwards, at where you started out, and you follow that arc through the hours and the months and the years until you get to the place you are right now, typing this. It's pretty crazy that I embarked on this thing when I was fifteen, and how different it all was back then. How different I was. How could I have known, sitting in this same chair, at this same keyboard, staring at the same screen, that whatever I was then initiating was to be a three year journey of discovery? (I do realise I am beginning to float away with a red balloon, but go with me here.) How could I have known that it was just the beginning, and not the end, of something? Because even though I didn't write it down, and even though it wasn't committed to a hard drive, I still remember so vividly the thoughts compelling me to start. Driving me to start. This was my panacea, my salvation, my exorcism. It was how I was going to overcome what had pinned me down for longer than it should have. And I thought it was just that one hill, but it turned out to be an entire mountain range. It's taken me everywhere; back to basics and camping at the northern-most tips of Scotland, on a pilgrimage to the remotest village in a politically unstable nation recovering from civil war, literally to the other side of the world in Woy Woy and back. It's bore me up to stand at the highest pinnacle of happiness, of recklessness, and it's cast me down far lower than I ever thought it was possible to go. But it's always pulled me back again. It is kind of the one constant in my life. It anchors me. It has been the most amazing journey, ever, and now it's winding down. It's the last hundred miles. There's still a little way to go but there's so much more behind me, urging me on. I feel sad and relieved and happy, but most of all, I feel content. And I know it's time. 

So, to fifteen year old Me, chin up! Happy April 23rd! You did good, kid :).

  

In the process of typing this up, Rosie was attacked by a large hairy spider, those things which have six legs too many. In conjunction with a sight she saw three times today and which caused her heart to palpitate and explode like a kernel of corn, she feels this is an unequivocal sign from the cosmos that she must Sort Her Life Oot. She is also kind of wondering if she should squish the figurative spider in the same way her mother did, and then proceed to flush it down a metaphysical toilet?

Rosie would also like to confirm she has safely returned from her red balloon escapading, and that her poor readers should be likewise safe in the knowledge that a post of this nature will not be inflicted upon them again until at least May 6th. If one does appear, they should feel free to point out the fact she should be striving to pass her exams instead of procrastinating on the interweb. Depressing depictions of her life if she fails are not required, but will be retrospectively appreciated.