Like most people, I'm susceptible to the romance of a new year--the promise of a fresh start, the tightly rolled scroll of months still sitting at our feet. It's so deeply ingrained, culturally, to hope at the beginning of January. I think of it often as the magic of a blank page: sometimes it's scary to sit down and write--to begin--but there's also something energizing about the possibilities. What will I make of it? I often wonder this about blank pages, and new years too.