The Blame Game

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Trying to keep a journal has always been a challenge for me. I would start out with this beautiful blank book and go great guns for a while, writing about books I was reading, reflections on how things from those books applied to my life, what things were happening in my kids' lives, expressing feelings about people in my past or current day-to-day life. Then one day I wouldn't write in it - and suddenly a month had gone by with no entries. In this, like everything else, I seem to be really good at starting, but not so good at finishing things.

Today I will throw the blame for this deep character flaw of mine squarely on the shoulders of my parents. Perhaps if I had done something like learn to play an instrument, and they had made me stick with it even when I fussed and said, "I don't wanna," I would have learned how to discipline myself regarding seeing things through. My parents were always otherwise occupied. They didn't have the time or the inclination to press things in this manner. I started learning to play the violin in grade school, but neither of my parents showed the slightest inclination toward making me practice. And when I WOULD practice, my older sisters would all complain about the noise until I stopped. So much for playing the violin. I'd climb the tree in the back yard with a book stuck inside the waistband of my pants, and read until someone called me back in to eat dinner. That seems to be the one thing that I required no encouragement to do - read, (although I guess noone ever encouraged me to climb trees either, but I did that as often as I could).