A little bit like life...

The beginning of my first attempt to climb Mt. Whitney.
At the time, it felt like a failure when I didn't make the summit.
A few years later, I could see it for what it was. My beginning.

The best part of a new piece is the potential it holds. A story we're just beginning to write could, just maybe, turn out like we hope it will. We know it won't, but we suspend our disbelief at least until the first surge of words that drove us to the page begins to ebb and the old questions press in like the tide against our shore.

I have a file full of these starts. They all have merit. Potential. A particular bounce to them.

And they're all mostly just starts. No ends. No middles. Just first steps down paths I hope to return to someday when the next wave of inspiration/time/manic energy strikes me. In many cases, I never will.

But I keep them around, like headstones on the graves of people I could have known but didn't get the chance to follow though on building any kind of relationship. They remind me that I need to keep writing. That I need to push past the gleam of the new beginning to the dirt and mundane that comes with the uplift and connection of our closest connections. That I need to put in the work to really see whether they will break my heart or help it expand beyond the limits I impose on it myself.

In essence, there really is no such thing as a false start. There are only the starts that end so I have the time and focus to make the ones I really need to pursue.