NOW BEGINS ANOTHER IN THE LONG LINE OF MY FORGOTTEN NOTEBOOKS.
ON A PLANE, WITH ISLAND LIFE APPROACHING, I'M LEAVING BEHIND THE CITY AND THE JOB AND THE SADLY MISTAKEN BELIEF THAT LOVE CAN LAST.
I'M LEAVING TO WRITE. NOT JUST THIS NOTEBOOK, BUT SOMETHING ELSE, SOMETHING REAL. I'M SORELY TIRED OF WHAT I WRITE FOR A LIVING AND HAVE REACHED THE PHASE WHERE I'M FINDING IT ALL SOUNDS THE SAME.
I ONCE WROTE FOR WRITING. NOW I WRITE FOR REACTIONS. SOMEHOW DURING THESE LAST TWO YEARS AT PRENTICE HALL, AND WHILE WITH CORRINA, I'VE LOST SOMETHING I VALUE. I'VE BEEN BLIND TO WHAT'S REAL. BOTH THE JOB AND THE WOMAN KILLED SOMETHING I WANT TO RECLAIM.
NOW OVER THE OCEAN, ON THE WAY, ABOVE THE CLOUDS, I'M HEADED TOWARD MY LOST IDEALS, TOWARD A SEMBLANCE OF SERENITY, TOWARD SELF-DISCOVERY.
THE CAPTAIN HAS ANNOUNCED MY ARRIVAL. THE CLOUDS DISPERSE AS WE DESCEND, LEAVING ONLY THE HAZY BLACKNESS OF EARLY EVENING. THE PLANE IS BANKING.
ISLAND LIGHTS. I'M BACK.