I love memories.
I remember dipping my feet in the lake by our house when we lived in Finland and how afraid I was of swimming in it (I couldn’t swim).
I remember how icy cold my fingers were the morning we hiked up Dumyat for sunrise, and how much they hurt when I tried to play guitar as the harsh winds blew.
I remember how much it hurt the first time I cut my knee at school.
I remember the warmth of the Pacific Ocean between my toes on Coronado Island.
I remember the first time I fell off a horse, and that weird moment when everything was in slow motion.
I remember the second time I fell off a horse, and when it trotted back around and sniffed me; my heart still melts at the thought of that.
I remember the taste of Goat’s Cheese Risotto in Strada on London’s South Bank.
I remember how much it hurt the first time I had my heart broken by a boy; and the next time, and the next time, and the next time…
I remember my first gig when I was fourteen, and my friend’s parents dropping us off right at the door of the venue; I remember how that gig ended with a guy overdosing and going to hospital. I don’t remember what bands played.
I remember the first time I saw the Wallace Monument, the Ochils and Stirling Castle all standing strong in a line as we drove along the A9 when I moved to Stirling in 2008 and how I didn’t care at all; I remember staring at them in awe every other time I went back in September after that.
This is why my book is on hold. I’ve decided not to quit, but to put more effort into planning it. I managed to wing it for over 6,000 words and that was cool, but I want to try a bit harder. I want to sit down and remember and smile and cry and make notes and then I want to start the final product. It’ll take a while, but it will definitely be worth it.