Category Archives: Writing

Culture/Politics, Poetry, Writing

Sides

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I’d like to think that I maintain an open mind
Or at least I am not shy to take in what I find
But no matter how I’ve tried to see a view larger than mine
“It seems like you have picked a side,”
They say of me sometimes.

The comment leaves me wondering,
Who determined what sides exist?
Who established the boundaries?
When did they announce all this?
Maybe there’s some information,
Some important tweet I missed
That settles the determination
of who’s for and who’s against
And what the issue really is.

In life it seems that so few things are cut so clear as A or B
But so many refuse to choose to see all these complexities
And so we shout down any views with which we feel we disagree
And paint them not as they communicate but as unsafe extremes

It’s easier to reject than it is to reflect
It’s easier to ignore than it is to learn more
It’s easier to smear or sneer than take the time to truly hear
It’s easier to shut out than to pause and think about
And while I’d like to think that my own views are still quite fair
I must admit, I’ve found a side that I would like to share.

I choose the side that says the ones we authorize
to handle lethal force while risking their own lives
Should be respected, yes, of course,
But it should come as no surprise
That those trained and equipped with more
Would have a standard strict and high

I choose the side that sees a disconcerting pattern
of deadly tragedies and lives that should’ve mattered
Dying doing things that I and my kids can do every day
Like driving, gaming, jogging, sleeping, going to the park to play.

I choose the side not satisfied to look some other ways,
Who don’t decide that they’re just tired of Facebook posts on race
Who don’t reply with “What about—” deflecting conversation
Who won’t sit silent with their doubts and worries for our nation
Who call out the hypocrisy when one side does what’s wrong
When just a few years earlier they sang a different song

I choose the side that says that we can look at more than one
Issue that’s dividing us from what we could get done.
We don’t have to act like we can only focus on one problem
When there’s plenty we could do if as a group we tried to solve ‘em

I choose the side that says we ought try to empathize
I think it’s worth a thought to see the struggle from another’s eyes
I choose the side that says that I know I don’t have it figured out
But listening to different voices and learning to shut my mouth
Has made some space for growth and maybe even fostered doubt
Where compassion and humility can find some fertile ground

I choose the side that doesn’t jump to find justification
And lose my mind when I see facts enduring alteration,
Obscured interpretation of a hurtful situation
And the sure perpetuation of unfounded allegation
And immediate assumption of some disqualification
That allows us to negate the arguments and proof we’re facing
“Why, any lie is better than to be confronted by
The possibility that I could have to change my mind!”

It was not too long ago that I suppose I chose a side
When I watched all those before my eyes start drawing battle lines
When they dug their trenches and, with thoughts of war preoccupied,
They hunkered down into the ideologies they fortified

I recall an ancient tale of a city become battleground
One army huddled in their walls, the other army circled ‘round
Their leader then encountered one who called himself commander
And he questioned this newcomer with a single-minded manner
“Are you for us, or for our enemies,” he asked
“Neither,” came the answer that he never would’ve guessed

We might think it’s binary, every issue black and white,
Only options A or B, there’s a wrong and there’s a right
But I shall not be beholden to this warlike apparatus
And I will not offer loyalty to those seeking more status
Those who walk with certainty that it’s their camp that God inhabits
Think it fair to challenge me, “Why have you turned your anger at us?”

I do not stand my ground with pride, but I consider this:
I do not claim, “God’s on my side,” but ask, “Am I on His?”

Culture/Politics, Writing

Tweet Crossing

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The President needs a public relations rep to lock down his Twitter account.

Ok, at least someone needs to vet his messages before he tweets them.

Writing is hard; we all can use some constructive feedback and added perspective when we’re putting thoughts into words.

I mean, I know I’m not the first to think so, and I’m not saying anything profound or new.

A lot of people on the Left think he’s the worst; he can’t possibly do or say anything good; he should resign and go to jail, and so on. I think that’s extreme, but I don’t expect them to listen to me.

However, I also have a lot of friends who think that President Trump is God’s gift to America, freedom, and the world. So maybe I can speak to them and help them see something with a little more complexity than the all-or-nothing views of the Left and Right in America.

I’ll use a self-deprecating example and tie it to a popular game to gain sweet relevance points.

I started playing Animal Crossing: New Horizons a few weeks ago. My kids were playing it. My daughter (married and in the States) was playing it. She finally convinced my wife to play it. Video games aren’t really my wife’s thing, so it hit me that this was something we could all do which she wanted to do, instead of the usual situation where she does something (like play D&D) because I’m doing it.

Bonus! Count me in.

I had seen a little bit of how the game works—Tom Nook is this raccoon guy who keeps giving you upgrades to your house or island, but you keep owing him a ton of money and have to do a bunch of work for him while he stands around talking about how great the island is.

He has a couple of servants—err, co-workers? children? employees?—who run a store for him and do various tasks, and he delegates most responsibilities to you or them.

Almost everything on the island bears the company label.  

I laughed at the thought of him standing there like some despotic “Dear Leader” while his people toiled for the greatness of their newly settled island.

Maybe like Tom Jong Nook. Hmm… North Korea… Tom Nook… Nook Korea…

It sounds close, when you think that Nook rhymes with took or book.

They seemed so happy at first…

The double-o of “Nook” also looks like boot, toot, hoot, etc.

You can quickly see where this is a problem, even if I didn’t at the time.

If only I had an extra set of eyes or someone who could’ve said, “Dave, do you realize what it sounds like you’re calling your island?”

To be fair, I didn’t ask anyone first. I understood my joke. I knew what I meant. I had the best words.

(I restarted the island and used the name of the fictional country from Papers Please because my 9-year old has been running around saying, “Glory to Arstotzka” every so often. Which is its own long story.)

So, what else has the same double-o sound as boot… Loot? Shoot?

I’ve had conservatives try to explain this away and claim that it couldn’t possibly mean threatening violence. “It’s just stating a fact. When people start looting, sometimes people get shot. No threats intended. And isn’t the real problem the crime taking place? What about—“

Let’s be serious.

At absolute best, “benefit of the doubt level 100,” the tweet in question is poorly written if you want to avoid misunderstanding.

In the same sentence, there is a promise that military intervention will take place if there is any difficulty, followed by the clause “but when the looting starts, the shooting starts.”

That connects those thoughts and subjects, even if the connection was unintentional.

That’s basic grammar.

If someone wanted to bring up a connection between looting and shooting as an inconvenient truth, and a warning that these situations are dangerous, or whatever innocent meaning the Never-Wrongers believe was intended, then he could have just written that thought in a completely separate tweet.

Tweets are free.

Some people clearly know that and use that to their advantage to make their voice heard. All. The. Time.

What’s the lesson here?

A moment of introspection can sometimes answer the difficult question of “How could what I am saying be taken? Is that how I mean for it to be taken? How can I say it so that my meaning is more clear?”

However, we’re notoriously bad at seeing beyond our own perspective. That’s where it helps to get input from professionals. Ancient wisdom tells us that “Where there is no counsel, the people fall; but in the multitude of counselors there is safety.”

Maybe at least one or two.

A writer should probably work with an editor before publishing a book. A corporation or public figure should probably get some input before putting an off-the-cuff statement out there.

Also, remember, tweets are free. You can post a lot of them! Like, so many.

If all that fails, get Animal Crossing and start working to pay back Tom Nook. You get in a lot less trouble that way.

Writing

The Magic of Moms

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I’m pleased and excited to announce something that came as a surprise in an email to me a couple weeks ago:

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Magic of Moms will feature one of my previously published stories, entitled “Thank You for Your Service.”

You can find this volume on Amazon, like virtually all things in life. It will be released March 17th, but as a contributing author willing to promote the book, I received several copies to give away.

Hmm. There is a downside to this: If I give one of these to my wife for Mother’s Day, I suspect she’ll see through the ruse. (Kidding!)

That won’t be a problem for you, dear reader. Whether it’s for a seasoned mother who has been your support and strength, a new mother who might need support and encouragement, or for one of those many surrogate mothers who come into our lives and bless us in profound ways, this may be a thoughtful and uplifting way to say thanks.

You can find my contribution in the section honoring surrogate mothers. It’s story number 76 (because America!), and is about a wonderful woman who took my family in to bless the way she would her own children and grandchildren during our brief time being stationed in Nebraska.

To all the mothers out there–whether by birth, by adoption, in spirit, or in support of someone in need–thank you all for your service, a gift of immeasurable value to the generations you lift up.

Poetry, Writing

Greener Pastures

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You’re living your best

I’m coming apart

You’re looking so blessed

I’ve fallen so far

I’m searching for rest

For my weary heart

But I’m feeling it less

And it’s getting so hard

Watching all the socials, and I see you’re doing fine

Posting all your selfies, and your numbers always climb

Everyone likes looking at the life they want to find

No one likes relating to the people in decline

No one likes the mirror when it shows them what’s inside

Everyone would rather look for dreams they can’t define

Something better, richer, bigger, more than the next guy

A little bit more money, then we’ll sure be satisfied

A little something extra on the top of what is mine

A little fleeting sense of bliss that’s sure to fade in time

Possessions are possessing us, contentment’s undermined

We’re sure the grass is greener when we check the other side

But the image that we’re seein’ is a cover meant to hide

That what’s beyond the fence is barren, and the advertisements lied

When they’re selling us true livin’ from a place where hope has died

Spending all day

Looking through the fence at other pastures

While the opportunities to do your passion’s slipping past ya

Going astray,

Blowing off the skills that I should master

But I’m jealous of all these who do it better, do it faster

Making my way
Working toward the goals I set for last year

But the more I run it seems the finish line is moving backwards

I like to say

That I’m taking my time when I’m slow to stack words

But it’s like I’m running, sprinting on a leg that’s fractured

Time heals all wounds

That’s what they say, but I am not sure

Seems sometime soon

I’d be on my way, but I’ve still got hurt

Trying to ruin

What I dream someday will give me pleasure

With the illusion of the harmlessness of leisure

I take a measure of the distance I have traveled,

Should convince me that my dreams haven’t unraveled

But the crowd of voices in my head all babble

Like the war is over and I’ve lost the battle

Like the judge declared the sentence, rapped the gavel

On the block, we’re off the clock, this is just rabble

And it’s rousing nothing, no, at best I dabble

In the meaning of the verse with which I grapple

So I look beyond the fence for what I tell myself I need.

“If I had it good like that, then I’m sure I would succeed.”

Poetry, Writing

Out of Time

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Here’s another poem meant as a spoken word piece.
I know it’s been a while since the last post – one of many factors that inspired this poem. I’ve had a number of blog post ideas that sound great for a moment and then fade into memory, lost in distraction or the more urgent needs of life … but every once in a while I get spurts of writing done.

Tick-tock tick-tock, feeling out of time
Watching the clock, like it might rewind
Thoughts are time-locked, moving in a line
Through a minefield, thinkin’ ‘bout what’s mines

I been livin’ in the past, or I’m fearin’ for the future
Dwellin’ on the last things I said and how they hurt ya
Time is flyin’ fast and they say that means it’s fun
But I’m watchin’ and the hourglass is draining, almost done
Every grain a memory of a place I’ve been before
A little pain when I see important options unexplored
I don’t aim to play “What if?” — waste of time I can’t afford
Need to keep up with “What is” ‘cause with time there’s never more

Shut the door, I don’t mean to be ravin’
Out my mind – All these questions I’m raisin’
Out of time – got these goals but I’m lazy
Shut my eyes – should be set on obtainin’ 
Everything that I said I’d be aiming at
Alarm rings, stay in bed, I be snoozin’ that
New day brings grace instead of what I should get
But I cling to the blanket of my regret

Cold inside, I’m uncomfortable in my head
Try to hide all the dreams that I left for dead
Brush aside all the wreckage from words I said
Full of lies, not only empty promises
Compromise, lookin’ back on the things I did
Idolize all the ones getting after it
Never tried, not enough to create a hit
I despise what I do, and I can’t forget

When I look at the past, I feel out of sequence
When I measure my present, I’m so delinquent
Will I finish the plans and ideas I’m thinkin?
Look at the future for me, there’s no freak win
See, I fail to develop in me any discipline
Good things I do once, I will rarely do again
And that’s a road that only leads to a dead end
But that’s the situation that I have placed myself in

Caught between my regret and what hasn’t happened yet
Between the person that I was and who I’m afraid I’ll be
Worry ‘bout the fantasy, I forget the real me
Lookin’ backwards as I’m walkin’ — How am I supposed to see?
Thinkin’ forwards when I’m dreamin’ all the possibilities
But it’s much more like a nightmare when it finally clicks for me
That the clock is ever tickin’ and the rate is only quickened
And I’m missin’ all the seconds — slip into eternity
And I’m stuck beneath the burden of the knowledge in this wording
Like a lock around the hurtin’ and I lost the only key

Tick-tock tick-tock, feeling out of time
Unwind the clock, gears all start to grind
Thoughts so fleeting, dreams all in decline
Like the twilight swallowing sunshine

Writing

First Flight Again

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Over the weekend, I had the pleasure of enjoying the wonder and magic of flight once more.

I spent 24 years in the Air Force, 21 of them in active flying positions. My first sortie (that counted) was April 1st, 1997, and it’s been less than a year since my last.

Sure, sitting in the back of a modified air refueler isn’t as fancy as the thrills and joys fighter jocks experience on the daily.

But it’s still breathtaking to look out at the skies and the sunrise across the ocean, or sunset over the mountains.

Civilian airliners are a little more polished and comfortable than the military aircraft I’m used to, but the view out the window is much the same. I jotted down my thoughts by hand in my journal while we climbed:

Sunset over the Pacific, sometime after leaving Japan

First time flying after retiring from the Air Force. It’s such a thrill to watch the ground fall away, to see the massive buildings become tiny, like toys or models on a wide train set.
When the wisps of clouds slide past the window, obscuring the view now and then until it all goes white or grey… and then you rise into the vast expanse of blue, with a rippling, puffy blanket of cloud spread beneath you.
The plane banks, and impossibly you find yourself staring straight down at the earth far below; you feel like you could fall forever, but somehow you stay aloft. The engines whine and rumble, and you feel the thrust vibrating through the seat, through the floor, through the whole strange structure that has just thrown off gravity’s shackles and leapt into the sun’s embrace.
Higher and higher you climb as the ground changes from a detailed diorama of life seen from afar to a pastiche of blended colors. The ocean looks ruffled but solid, a widespread pool of dried glue, firm and unyielding. The clouds that once seemed distant but tangible are now revealed to be ethereal mists, like the memory of the place you left behind, and the expectations for where you are now headed.

More multi-layered Pacific clouds
Poetry, Writing

Forty-Two

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Happy birthday to me! (Belated, of course… everyone knows how proactive I am about posting in a timely manner here.)

I wrote a bit of poetry in my fake-NF style of rhythmic verse, contemplating the significance of yet another solar orbit in the books.

Forty Two, that’s what’s new,

another birthday to-do

Another year goin’ through the same old-same old, it’s true

That the life that I’ve been livin’ isn’t different or new

And the difference that I’m wishin’ for seems farther from view

 

Forty years in the desert and I’m still wandering

Like the disobedient children and I’m still wondering

If the gods that I have fashioned out of gold and the bling

Are any better than the One whose voice I hear thundering

Telling me bout everything that I’m unwilling to see

Telling me to drop the thing that is burdening me

All the weight and all the pressure when I can’t even breathe

‘Cause I’m hoarding all my treasure in this life that I lead

Making everything I do about the comfort I seek

Using everyone around me for whatever I need

So the focus of my life is centered all about me

Maybe that’s the reason why it’s so dissatisfying

Because it’s not what I’m about at least in words that I speak

And the conflict ‘tween my words and actions makes me feel weak

‘Cause I know that I’m not reachin’ for the top of the peak

Man, I’m lucky if I take a step toward somethin’ unique

 

Nah, I’m carried with the flow along the path that is wide

And no matter how I try to reach the other side

It still feels like I’m strugglin’ to keep it alive

When I’m slippin’ on my sin and then I’m starting to slide

Askin’ why I’m givin’ in and why I haven’t tried

To restrain myself and focus more with all of my might

And to lay ahold of all the goals I dream when I write

All the things I say I want to do that’s passin’ me by

And another year around the sun, man, time really flies

And the list of what I haven’t done keeps growin’ in size

 

So I write another poem full of verses and lies

How this time I gotta change and finally realize

All the effort it’ll take to take ahold of the prize

Sure, I’m gonna make a difference, now it’s time to arise

And to run with some endurance while I’m fixin’ my eyes

On the Author and the Finisher of what I describe

As the source of all the strength in me that keeps me alive

But if faith ain’t got some works then it’ll never survive

And by definition work is hard so I gotta strive

To stop shirkin’ every burden, leaving efforts deprived

Of the power and the diligence that they need to thrive

 

So I write all of this down in hopes that maybe I’ll see

That the only one to blame is who I don’t want to be

And I’m starin’ in the mirror and he’s lookin’ at me

Sayin’ “Hey, let’s make a bet, tell me if you agree

That you’re not quite ready yet to make the changes you need

So don’t waste my time with stuff that you don’t even believe

Don’t act like you’ve got what it takes to take down me

Let’s just put a pin in this ‘til you turn forty three.”

BlogBattle, Writing

Midnight Chase

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This is a flash-fiction entry based on the word, “Flower,” for Rachael Ritchey’s BlogBattle. Every month, she picks a word as the theme for which a number of us write some kind of short story. For many months now, my entries have been the serialized mishaps of a bumbling macho man explorer in the 1930s and the knowledgeable “sidekick” who actually gets things done. 

The Adventures of Grant McSwain

Daring Explorer of Dangerous Environs and Fearless Discoverer of Fang-Filled Dungeons

…accompanied as always by his hapless assistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway

(992 words)

Grant threw his massive form from the cliffside and ran across the mossy bricks of the ziggurat with no loss of momentum. “I’m telling you, Teag,” he called over his shoulder, “the treasure is within reach.”

Crouched under the leafy branches near the ledge, Teagan hissed at her companion and listened to the nocturnal song of the Peruvian jungle. Were those voices in the distance? Could the Kaiser’s thugs be closer than before? Or had she imagined those lantern lights among the trees after sundown?

Grant paused, peering in the darkness. At least the oaf whispered this time. “Are you coming?”

Even though Grant made the leap without injury, Teagan still checked the distance before springing across the gap. Her boots clung to the stone well, despite the overgrowth, and she jogged along the structure’s heights toward Grant. “I’m coming, but I think I’m not the only one.”

Grant surveyed the jungle, though he had no chance of spotting anything through the thick foliage. “Those Germans after us again?”

“Not us so much as the treasure.”

“Coming through the river valley, unless I miss my guess.” He chuckled and gave a dismissive shrug. “They might find the entrance to the ziggurat, but they won’t be able to move all the rubble we left.”

Teagan’s eyes narrowed despite the dim moonlight. “About that… was dynamiting the entry hall really necessary?”

“I wasn’t sure a trap would stop them, so I figured an obstacle might.”

Teagan laid a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Laugh all you want. But if they learn to exploit Ixthacan relics or, God forbid, unlock the secret of these portal chambers, their militaristic ambitions in Europe could stretch across the globe in an instant.”

He flashed a devilish grin. “Let ‘em come. Maybe FDR will finally get our boys in the mix.” He hustled to the other side of the Ixthacan temple, where some previous explorer or tribesman had stretched a flimsy rope ladder like a bridge to the opposite cliff. Grant tested the thick ropes with his weight, shaking the cords to see how much they might withstand before trusting it fully.

Teagan eyed the ropes with suspicion and mounting fear. “Are you certain no one has found this ritual site before? Maybe someone already claimed whatever this ruin has to offer.”

“I doubt it,” Grant said as he took a step. The rope bridge swayed and dipped under his bulk but held him aloft. “This feels flimsy, Teag,” he added, his knuckles white as he gripped the cords. “We should go one at a time.”

Teagan crossed her arms and shuffled her feet as Grant inched his way across the gap. “What next,” she wondered, recalling the winding path that led them to the temple. A rickety flight skimming the treetops from Caracas, then a showdown in a seedy cantina with guerrilla rebels, followed by rafting through crocodile-infested waters, and finally trudging through treacherous jungles full of pythons, all with enemies nipping at their heels.

“Some anniversary,” she muttered. They had set out three years to the day since their first excursion, and only a month since Grant had professed his love. Seeing him suspended over the chasm between the cliff and the ziggurat, Teagan felt an all-too familiar mix of adoration and frustration.

Grant strained as he worked his way across. “Talk to me, Teag,” he said through gritted teeth. “Tell me something useless about the Ixthacans and the ceremonies.”

Teagan bristled, then recognized the touch of panic in Grant’s voice. He wasn’t mocking her studious nature or detailed note-taking. He needed a distraction.

The thought of pythons sparked a memory, a legend surrounding the ritual site. “Locals claimed spirits would come from the heavens at night to bless the Ixthacan chieftains. Beings of snake-like appearance, much like the Naga of Buddhist and Hindu mythology.”

Grant grunted an acknowledgment.

“Prior to our discoveries with the portals,” Teagan added, “I found the similarities fascinating, given that the Ixthacans and Buddhists lived on opposite sides of the world. Scholars assume Chinese seafarers spread the stories across the Pacific. After all, certain rare flora from the Orient also flourish here, and—”

“Made it,” Grant said, tossing her a rope. He acted unfazed by the brush with danger. “Tie this around your waist, and I’ll hang onto it just in case you slip.”

In short order, Teagan joined Grant on the far side. Had it seemed easier for her because of her comparatively light weight? Was Grant hiding some injury, as he often did?

“Which way?” he asked, checking the stars. Unexpected urgency filled his voice. Had he suddenly believed her concerns?

“It’s supposed to be northwest. We’re very close.”

He crouched and tromped through the brush in the direction she indicated. Teagan watched in confusion, then followed, inspecting plants as she passed. Someone had been this way recently.

Before she could warn Grant, they burst into a wide clearing, surrounded by thick trees with forked limbs reaching into the sky. Large reddish bulbs grew in the joints where branches of tree trunk met. A weathered stone with faded runes marked the Ixthacan site, though much of the jungle’s growth had been cleared away.

“You’ve already been here,” Teagan gasped.

Grant nodded and hushed her. “Last night. Just watch.”

As one, the bulbs spread with lazy movements under the stars, thin red leaves stretching into a sunburst around two rings of ivory petals circling the pistils clustered in the center. While Teagan stood in awe, a dozen blooms of silver-white opened in the moonlight.

Grant slipped his arms around her. “Your treasure, my dear. One of the rarest flowers in the world. Queens of the night for my queen.” He gave her a peck and whispered, “Happy anniversary.”

“What about the Germans following us?”

“Oh, them?” He laughed. “Just some guys I paid off in the market. I knew you wouldn’t have half as much fun if you weren’t being chased.”

Night-blooming cereus.jpg by Aswin KP from Wikimedia Commons. Used under Creative Commons license.
Writing

Year Review

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For the last three years, I have tracked my writing using a daily word count log. I find this helps me be honest with myself about what I am doing–or more likely not doing–to achieve the goals I so often claim concerning books and blogs.

2018’s average daily word count was 796. I aim for 1K a day but recognize I may not always make that. Right or wrong (not that anyone can really say), I’m not as disappointed about it as I would have been a couple years ago.

At the start of the year, I thought I might hit Fantasy Book 2 hard and get that near completion. I got several chapters in but found myself slogging through, unmotivated and lacking a clear vision. Even the outlined parts that I know or think are right for the book feel less than thrilling… so I have to go back to the outlining board for that one.

I tried completing 2017’s National Novel Writing Month project, a prequel of sorts starring one of my favorite characters from the fantasy series. I finished a few more scenes but mostly left that unattended, awaiting future revision.

I put forth a few short stories or flash fiction pieces, and some poetry, so I don’t feel like all was lost… but I neglected this blog and major projects for far too long.

Some of my procrastination might be blamed on Dungeons & Dragons. For the better part of the year, I was running a game every other week, trying to craft some interesting story arcs or surprise moments for the friends and family sitting around the table rolling dice. I think I managed to pull off more exciting sessions than train wrecks, so I am proud of that. However, the creative effort involved both satisfies the urge to write and drains me of energy to pour into more writing.

I walked into NaNoWriMo 2018 knowing that I wouldn’t succeed at hitting 50K. I don’t want to keep using retirement from the military and moving our family home as an excuse, but it’s a simple fact that more important things demanded my attention than the blank screen of a manuscript-in-progress.

The few scenes I added to my “someday I’m really going to write this character” gambler prophet were well received by the local writing group, so that gives me hope. It also leaves me wondering if I should work on that while the desire is stirred in me, instead of trying to sort out the “more important” Fantasy Book 2 and all the other parts down the road.

In any event, I am definitely starting to feel the relaxation and liberty of civilian life, and I am looking forward to ways to put my scenic location and extra free time to use in the endeavor of writing.

I’ll continue aiming for 1K minimum each day (I’m already behind!), but I won’t have nearly the same number of reasonable explanations at the end of 2019 if I don’t meet that goal.

Have you set writing goals for this year? I’d love to hear what you have planned. Let me know in a comment so I can cheer you on.

Writing

Fan Farewell

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On Friday afternoon, one of my coworkers celebrated escaping moving on from the military.

She’s the wonderful individual who routinely asks me in a friendly but annoyed tone, “Where’s my book, sir?”

Though I never have a good answer to that question, I thought at least I could give something personal and special as a thank you for all the encouragement that her persistence has given me.

I drew up the three main characters of my fantasy series–Josephine, the Soulforged holy warrior; Kaalistera, the shadow-bending assassin; and Lyllithe, the outcast Devoted touched by the Void. It’s hastily-drawn and imperfect, but heartfelt.

When I presented her this gift, it led to a discussion with a couple of other co-workers, and my friend praised my book for its well-rounded characters and exciting action.

Of course, my initial reaction was to cringe a bit, shrug my shoulders, and deflect the praise, because I see all the flaws and mistakes where I should have spent more time to put out a better product.

However, it’s always a meaningful and special experience when someone expresses genuine interest in your creative work.

If you know someone who is involved in creative endeavors, you can show them a little love and spark them to put in the work with a simple expression of interest.

“What have you been drawing lately?”

“How’s writing going?”

“What’s your band playing next?”

“Where is my book, sir?”

Then endure their awkward look of embarrassment, nod politely, and let them continue on their way–probably with a smile on their face.

If nothing else, you might get a drawing out of it.