I do have time to write a book

I realized today that, according to Microsoft Word, my journal for this year is 430 pages long.  It seems I have been particularly loquacious this year.  Last year's journal finished at 308 pages.

I've often thought I should write a book.  I have a couple of ideas and even a couple of chapters written.  But I keep telling myself I don't have the time.

Well, obviously I do.  Four hundred pages would have been a pretty substantial book. 

(We're ignoring quality at this moment.)

If I devoted equal time to fiction as I do chronicling the mudanity of my life, I would have a first draft completed in a year.

But I can't stop journaling.  Would you believe I had forgotten creating two stained glass projects this year until I scanned my journal?  That's how bad my sense of time is.

My memory for facts and trivia is quite good.  But I never have understood how people can remember the dates they did things on, or even the year.  

I journal to give me a place to look things up.

So any writing would have to be in addition to my journal.  The time I spend journaling doesn't seem substantial.  So maybe adding an equal amount of time to fiction wouldn't seem so ominous.  

I could journal a little less,  fiction a little more.  

It's a thought.  Maybe a New Year's resolution.