The first post I made on this blog in February 2002 was this quotation:

"The story one has to tell won't be anything important.
So one can just as well write it down. Take the edge off this incurable propensity for writing, simply by giving in to it without taking it seriously. If the trick works, one is saved for the time being. I close my eyes and what do I see in my mind? Nothing important, as I said, and you can tell it's not important because it comes of its own accord, effortlessly, without being forced, no pattern, no significance. A page is torn from a notebook; once again the work schedule isn't followed and you make no progress in the grammar book. A few titles scribbled down, tentatively, as they come, something already worked out in the head, as it turns out, little stories, for later. When, if not now?"

-- The Quest for Christa T., Christa Wolf

One is saved for the time being. Yes. But in the last three years it's evident to me, in this moment as I sit here drinking cold coffee and sobbing tears I don't deserve, that I haven't reclaimed anything. And that even though I could have, and I had my chance -- I haven't constructed anything at all.