This is my last story here. . .

This is my last story here. . .

Well, of this kind. Even as I write it. . .I want to delete saying it.

It isn't how I want to work. I just want to write snippets here and there, as I think of them. But that is easy. And it leaves a lot of nothing behind.

And as some have told me, If continued, one day, I will find the value of my story has left.

It is, I suppose, time that I put it all somewhere else - instead of retaining it in my head and then sharing randomly in posts and blogs with abandon.

I think it must be time I go back and get everything I threw out there. . . gather it in, build on it, tell the "rest" and admit how hard that will be. . .

I'm not inclined to being scared - but saying this is kind of that scary.

I say it so I cannot back out and turn out and drop it. If I say this, I will never do those things.

I've only decided to do a small number of things in my life. I have only wanted the same, so that has been easy enough to keep up with it all.

It tends folks who know me are aware that if I decide to do something, it is done for a duration of no minor span and done to the best I can do the thing, whatever it is.

Growing up with many things that never were consistent and with things that changed with wind and the day of the week, I decided early on to instill in myself a fixity of purpose.

I value the ability to find only particular things to pursue. . .and do them well and for a span of valuable time. If I wanted many things and changed the wants as the wind blew, nothing would happen. I'd be sprinkled everywhere. . . failing, strewn constantly.

I suppose that is why I think of Ecclesiastes 9:10,
"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest." Well, we know I think of that for other reasons, but that is for the book, isn't it?

So It is time. Who knows how long it takes, either? A year? Let's hope.

For ten years, and more so in the last five, I've heard it thousands of times, no less than that, "Tinia, write the book". I've heard it from the highest levels on to the average reader of things they simply enjoy.

Christian told me two days ago

"Seems to me, you've been given all kinds of reminders. I'd say it means you should do this now, or admit you will never do it and you fail," and he is right.

Maybe I tried to time it. . .to time it when Angel, Ben, Quentin and Daddy's birthdays had all passed, kind of. . .

Maybe I have avoided writing it because it keeps me here - being able to tell it, as it comes. Let's pretend I didn't say that.

I've lived all the things. Seems a little dramatic for someone of 38 to say it, but there is nothing new left for me. There is more, but more and new are far apart. Whatever is in front of me looks to be a "by the wayside" tale of been there and done that.

And there is nothing coming I believe I will want to write about, so it seems it is now I should do it.

In some ways, I am glad. I can't imagine how I'll put the 38 years I've had into words, leaving out particular things that cannot ever be said . . .

That is how I know the time must be now. . . .that I can't fathom telling anyone more than I have already, knowing there is so much that has to be stored and still leaving so much untold.

To feel you've been born and lived to just tell a story . . .might not suit everyone.

But I'm a storyteller, and it suits me just fine. It actually is all I would like to believe.