On Writing

I dragged out 'my' book yesterday. The one I apparantly started in the fall of 2001. Yikes. I've been avoiding it off and on since then. I don't really know why. I like the story, I like the characters. It just feels overwhelming. I'm about 45,000 words into it. Bascially it's the story of seven sisters during 1-2 years in their lives. I can see the binder sitting in my chair looking back at me. Waiting for me to open it up and do something with it. But today the sun is shining, it's not too hot and there's gardening to be done. Another famous author ground into the dust. Or in this case... the flower beds.