Thirty-Eight…Part Two

I humbly pray in earnest that these scales be washed from my eyes, so I may finally see…


Since publishing yesterday’s post (Part I,) I got to thinking and realized that it may seem more concerned with the love and concern that I have for my stepsons. That wasn’t my intent, which isn’t to say that they aren’t equally important. They mean so much more than I could ever say.

Back to the task at hand.

I’m done making excuses. Yes, moving (especially on such short notice,) makes for very little extracurricular time, but that isn’t even the point. I’ve had all year and most of last December to get off my lazy behind to do the work, but I haven’t. Something always came up, or so I told to myself; lied to myself. See, that’s the thing with me: this has gone on for so long–most of my life, really– that I’ve become very good at deceiving myself. The King of Excuses lies so much that he believes his own lies. NOTE: I do not say that to sound pompous or arrogant. I am the king of nothing. The phrase simply plopped down in my mind, made itself comfortable, and I chose to use it. I think it serves its purpose here.

Anyway, I’ve had nine months and I squandered most of that time, and when I was writing, nothing ever came of it. Those stories are unfinished, just like every story that I’ve ever started. Yet, it’s deeper than that. I’ve wanted to write for as long as I can remember (in elementary and junior high school, I vaguely recall thinking up chapter titles and ways to fit said titles, not knowing at the time that writing doesn’t work that way. For most people, it’s the other way around.) In high school, I was completely enthralled with reading, particularly the works of Stephen King, whom I’d “discovered” the summer between eighth and ninth grade, circa 1993. All this goes to show the extent and the genesis of my passions. That’s twenty-four years, nearly a quarter of a century and I’ve thrown it away, perhaps even systematically.

I think often of how different my life could be, if I’d really buckled down in high school and upon graduation, applied to various schools in the area in pursuit of the Arts (not just writing, but painting and drawing, as well.) I fantasize about the fancy schools I could have attended, the awesome, like-minded individuals I could have met and fostered friendships with, and especially, the books that would be finished. Heck, they needn’t even be fancy schools, just a good institution in which to be properly educated.

Fantasy author, Christopher Paolini, began writing earnestly at fifteen or sixteen years old, embarked on what became the Inheritance Cycle.

S.E. Hinton began writing The Outsiders (published 1967,) when she was still in high school and, I just learned, as far as I know, she’s still writing today.


Look, I know these two are the exception to the rule, but most writers are published by the age of thirty, or perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps that’s another lie I keep telling myself. Okay, scratch that, not *most* but surely a lot of them start out young and never look back. Right?

There’s also the possibility that I’m putting too much on myself. In fact, that’s probably true because those that know me well often say that I take myself too seriously, that my expectations are too high. But that’s mostly because I know myself well enough to know what I am capable of, and it’s a hell of a lot more than a handful of unfinished works.

Is this all just me, or am I responding to what society tells us we are “supposed” to be? How much of it is me and how big of a role do the lies of the world play in our lives? I think that, above all, is the burning, pertinent question, don’t you?

In the end, I suppose it doesn’t matter. It’s probably best to stay away from the philosophical. As long as I keep the dreams alive and actively chase them, I cannot fail because God won’t let me. I won’t allow it and neither will my friends and family. I am tired of living with regret. I am going to make the very best of the rest of 2017.


“Kids, fiction is the truth inside the lie, and the truth of this fiction is simple enough: the magic exists.”

-Stephen King, It


Thank you, as always, for reading.



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