There's nothing quite like the sight of a blank page, the first blank page in a book full of them, every sheet untouched by ink, to make me want to hide. Perhaps I learned my fear of writing from my Aunt; gods know she can't seem to communicate effectively unless she's shouting and gesturing, and then all she communicates is what I am beginning to interpret as an overwhelming desire on her part to be hit over the head with a large frying pan. Infuriating is the best word I've found so far to describe our conversations.

I know I should be more patient, after all, she did allow me to stay with her when I discovered the room I'd planned to rent was unexpectedly taken - and that is a whole 'nother problem - and she does mean well, most of the time. I am not particularly close with any of my relatives on my father's side of the family and if my mother had any family left alive, she never spoke of them, nor did my father. It has always been a bit of a mystery and now, sadly, it may be forever unsolved. One good thing about my Aunt, she was honestly crying at the funeral, and I can tell she misses my mother.

Bother, there's the grandfather clock, seven o'clock already. Time to head downstairs and join her for dinner. Ye gods, it's Thursday too, pot roast and mashed potatoes, I will say this for my Aunt: she can cook amazingly. Give her a few pans, a jar or two of spices, and even just a picture of a few lamb chops or a good steak and she'll somehow come up with a four-course meal. Amazing. I can smell the roast from here so I shall lay down my pen. Hopefully I'll be able to keep my resolution and write in here at least three or four days a week.

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Weird fragments of story that I woke up with a little bit ago. It's all written in journal form, and in my dream I was paging through the journal, nervous about something and looking for answers in the scrawled handwriting and musty, old pages. *shrug* Hopefully I'll continue the story, though for NOW all I want is a popsicle or three.

Fortunately, we have surprisingly good MELON popsicles in the freezer. *pads off to get some*

Heh. Part of me is insisting that this story isn't mine alone, that there's someone else who should be writing it with me, both of us taking turns to write entries. Weirdest sensation I've felt in several days.

Oh, and the title of the story? Resolution. What I've caught of the ending so far is... rather interesting, at least from my point of view, and involves ancient bargains, the real reason making resolutions for New Year became a tradition, and of course there's the last little bit:

Jen asked me this morning if I had any regrets, or wished things had happened differently. Looking back, I am still certain that I would not change a moment of it. I may not be the same person I began as when I started writing in this journal, but I think I am better for the change. I know my life is better, as it has her in it.

This coming year, I resolve only one thing: to finish the job we have begun. There are others out there like him, others waiting, watching, thirsting... and their numbers are growing, or have been. No longer, though. We'll see to that.