Flash Fiction : Tales of King City – Graveyards

“So what happens when you visit the graveyard of forgotten heroes?” John Elden asked to the sunshine, the chasing monarch butterflies, the quiet river nearby, and his travelling companion.

Edwina, turned her head, one green eye and one yellow backlight cybernetic implant studied him. “What do you mean forgotten? And heroes? We come here so I can get some rest from that noise that’s out there.”

“You’ve been more cynical since Cincinnati.”

The pair strolled amongst the gravestones and markers.

“No, just more up front.” She placed a hand on a chest high marker. “Fletcher? Wasn’t that an occupation name?”

“Yes, and the husband was much older than the wife.” John rubbed down the marker. “Thirteen years, wait how old…”

“He was seventy, she was fifty-seven. He died 3 months after she did. Born… in that century and that old? That’s really defying the odds.”

“Yes, and that quote, old biblical hymn. Till the day break and the shadows flee away. I’ve heard that someplace else.”

Edwina laughed, “It’s surprising how much you automatically filter out the ambient fiction that is on the wide-cast. You should be going in for a sub-conscious cleaning every month with the amount of travelling we do.”

“Yeah, and when was the last time you went in for a tune-up? Hence why our visits to these places are becoming more frequent. Why aren’t we moving from this spot?” John asked, looking at the trees around them. The smells were foreign. Were these endangered plants the same two centuries ago?

“It’s literally a dead zone. Something with the harmonics and the lack of electrical fields. Doesn’t interfere with my implants. I can feel where I end, and the tech begins.” Edwina patted the grave marker. “Wait, what about heroes?”

“Somewhere, in my fleshy memory bank. The Fletchers, came from some money, not too much though. Back in the day where they had to keep their Talents hidden-”

“Why is that?”

“They burned the ones even with a little bit of access to the global sub-consciousness. Made impossible trials of death by water, by fire, even bludgeoning of stones. So there was a time when these Talents weren’t even recognized as such. The aberrant, the ones who wouldn’t fit into society. Witches, mutants, non-conformists.” John studied the marker. “And this is King City. One of the most widely accepted locations on the planet for such. Most of the world tries to forget that there are Gods and Giants and Aliens and Living Poetry that walk amongst us. Send it all here in one spot.”

“There are no Heroes anymore John. Just Talents that have been mass marketed. The average housewife can now get her own heat resistance factor just by paying three easy payments. No more burning hands when cooking.” Edwina moved off to another marker, her left leg dragging a little. She thumped her thigh with a clenched fist. “Hurts so good.”

“Well there were Heroes back then. Fought the good fight, made this city their home, and found ways to protect it. All under the cover of darkness and secrecy.” John felt a wave of dizziness flow over him. He gripped the marker for a moment, feeling warmth flow down his spine. “Whoa, okay, so I guess the ambient wide-casts have been a little too much lately.”

“Why do you think I’m going to get the Faraday cage woven into my cranial space?”

“To stop those pesky bug-eyed monsters from space? Because they are reading your thoughts?”

“To stop the magnetic and electrical marketing fields from having effect on me.” She sighed and then tapped three times on her cybernetic eye. “Stupid thing is, I’m putting more technology into me to make me more human. To stop the Corporations that be. I make my own decisions. I am my own person without sponsorship. And then I have to come to places like this, to remind my own flesh. To give that razors edge of tech a chance to settle down and not connect with the biological.”

The two of them turned, a man in a black suit carrying a briefcase walked up to them.

“The estate of Fletcher recognizes John Elden and Ed-”

“Don’t say it, professional handle please.”

“Also known as Ruby RUR Security. The estate would like to thank you for accepting the gifted heritage-”

“What?” John looked to Edwina, then to the stranger. “Oh you bitches. You did this on purpose. That’s another reason why we-”

“It had to happen John. You have no worries and no spot on the horizon to shoot for. You didn’t seek out any destiny, so it chose you. I’m immune to these things. My own mono-filament myth has been discovered. It was about time you did. ” Edwina smiled and then walked up to the man, “Papers? I’d like to scan for my friend here.”

John looked back to the marker, remembering the foreign smell. Activation pheromones from the local fauna, triggering response back through the body. The grave marker itself probably had a genetic compatibility matrix involved. And that quote… Till the day break. They were fighting the forces of darkness.

It was a hell of a way to lose your Talent cherry.

“What am I going to do with this Talent?”

“I apologize Sir, but in this case, the Talent does require training. We have taken steps to protect those within your genetic heritage and social relationships. They will not be used as leverage they could possibly impose or threaten you with.”

“This is stupid. I have a date tonight.”

“And afterwards, the transport will take you to India, the transit to Shambala is ready. There you are to begin your training.” The man in black spoke and stood with his hands behind his back.

“Don’t blame me for this John. We can actually blame the western civilization for putting up the barriers between good and evil. Light and dark. The original nomadic tribes of this place didn’t have words to do this. They had love and fear. That’s it. Only until the mass religions starting imposing their mental patterns into the lands, then all of this good and evil business reared it’s black and white dual faced head. What’s immoral… oooh, therefore it’s bad. Who’s morals again?” Edwina finished scanning the last page. “It’s legit.”

“And the madam, is also invited for clearance with her association to the newly selected Guardian.”

“Guardian?” John winced, rubbed his tanned hands into the corners of his eyes. “Sounds so generic.”

“Trust me Sir, the role is bigger than the title.”

John glared at Edwina. “Why couldn’t we have done this in Las Vegas?”


“Right. Forgot about that.”

“Sir, the airship awaits.”

“Airship?” Edwina smiled.

“How much is the role and the estate and the-”

“Sir, the legacy has been waiting for two hundred years and faithfully maintained for over twelve generations, prior to the world bank system, and individual bank system. The Guardian is as how you say these days, monetarily endowed. Or stinking rich.”

“I will have enough time to recover and enjoy the good life?”

“Indeed Sir.”

John looked to the marker, pulled out his wallet, looked to the tattered identification cards. “I like the sound of John Fletcher. Ed, let’s go India, get training, and get you that Faraday implant. And some new shoes.”

Scary stuff

Recently, I’ve read articles on improving writing, getting the art and craft perfected. Mainly it’s all about putting works into the world. The secret is not too think about it too quickly. Just be in the moment, and do it.

Scary stuff.

But it frees you.

There comes a point, where the sound of the busker is better than anything commercial on the radio. This is mainly because they are putting their own art out immediately into the world. Instant feedback, from all walks of life. Bruce Cockburn did it for a year, busking in Paris. Writing, performing, seeing what worked, what didn’t work.  Earning just enough to eat or get another place to stay for a night. Literally living off of his music day to day. No royalties, no big business, no record company, no marketing campaigns, no product endorsements. Just music.

Apparently, that’s how you get good. You keep doing it, and doing it, and doing it. Never mind the rough spots, those are just highlights to remember later on. The practice starts to become graceful and elegant when you stop embracing the fear. And never forget, no one is born an expert. Have fun doing it. Whatever your art is.

Don’t mind my awkward clumsiness. I’m just getting started. Again.

I’m still here,


P.S. If I ever learn how to sing or play guitar, this is definitely going to be on my coffee shop list. Happy Friday.

Flash Fiction : Word Association

It all started off so simple.

A little trick, a hack. Just a little quirk on the way people read and interpret symbols.

The technology was developed by a disgruntled undergraduate at NYU. Frustrated from the hours of working on his supervisors mathematics study, he needed a distraction. Just a little side project. And then after reading a self-help book ‘Your dream, Your reality’, he decided to make the impossible, possible. It was a dream of his, to see his own name in the comic books he read as a child. No longer would it be Peter Parker, or Bruce Wayne, on the panelled pages. It would be Jonathan Sibekowicz. With all the powers and abilities fit for any modern myth.

It was just a matter of finding the core root symbol which people would interpret with their own name.

He started delving into Symbol Grounding, memetics, cognition computation, tribal symbols, evolution of language. Hours at libraries, random phone calls to people who wrote articles. Jonathan became so obsessed with the idea, that his supervisor began questioning if he was on drugs. Coming in at strange hours, smelling like he had not bathed in weeks, slept in clothing, snapping at people for no apparent reason.

After several months, Jonathan had the breakthrough.

Then slept for thirty-two hours straight.

He quickly made it back to the lab, and straightened his work hours altogether, putting in new time and new ideas to his supervisor. Theories which were once dismissed were now plausible now taken from the new point of view. Jonathan was going places.

He took time off from his work. A sabbatical, something that he needed to do for quite some time.

Three weeks later, human consciousness began taking a turn.


The symbol appeared in a small press electronic comic book which had become quite popular amongst the 7 to 16 year age. Kid hero, was aimed at delivering long-term stories which helped educate and subtly deliver life lessons. It was quite typical to read the climax of a story arc where Kid Hero would have forgotten his new weapon against the powers of evil, because he was too busy looking at other things on the internet. On a following story, the new weapon would be missing the power pack, because he forgot to write it down.

The media began showing this new comic book where your child could become Kid Hero. The style quickly spread, and other publishers began using this new type of code. A simple little symbol. New types of fiction emerged.

It was something new, and it was very marketable. The phenomenon and style had spread. Further research by John Hopkins Hospital found other core symbols. Shapes and colors, tonal sounds could be all translated into making similar images.

Jonathan signed different agreements with major publishers, newspaper pushers, audio and video producers. Overnight he became a very wealthy to the point where he could disappear. The last mention of him in recorded history (which could be understood), showed that he had won a small church bingo in Christchurch.

This new type of language was embraced equally and quickly from all nations. And then human consciousness began changing. The amount of interconnectedness with information had become not only habit, but essential to the wellbeing of people. And it was being rewritten by the core symbols which Jonathan discovered.

That was the scary part. It was stronger and more ruthless than the English language.

People with dyslexia had protection. That little reversal which rearranged letters and numbers had actually saved them. They had their own mental firewall against the information virus which appeared in all forms of media. Eventually, their own efforts to stop the information from entering their memories were futile.

Others, whose brains were still developing, tried to keep their grip onto the basic concepts of life. That which had names, no longer had them. Mom, Dad, door, book, red, yellow. They were meaningless. There was a break in the distinction between object, name and meaning. Soon, they began withdrawing from everyone. Behaving quite distinctively anti-social. Running directly on instincts, these children became feral and tribal. Groups of them would be spotted in urban cities, running in packs, gathering and hunting for resources.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t an isolated incident.

Religious leaders across the world, simultaneously met, speaking only. Those who were found with paper and printed material were banned and removed. They were isolating themselves, against a virus that could be spread just as easily by drawing it on a wall. The new theory was that the Babel virus was rediscovered. A wave of destruction which would spread through the minds of everyone connected to written word.

Scientists who studied infectious diseases were baffled. How does one stop a type of information that spreads like a virus? Information shut outs? The human mind is curious at best, and will seek out new sources when it has not been fed.

Ironically, the illiterates were partially affected. People who were indifferent, and didn’t remember too much, they would skim media. Some of them were obliterated with the information that had jumped into their consciousness. Their subconscious trying to chew away at that unsolvable symbol, slowly degrading the associations had been built into a lifetime. Some of their doctors were baffled, as it appeared to be the same symptoms as some types of brain cancer.

The symbols continued to propagate themselves, taking on a new life. Groups of people would gather together, in trance states, writing them, drawing them in all sizes and forms on any available surface. The language itself had turned viral, and people were the host.

Then there are us. Those able to relearn, rebuild from the crumbling remains. We’re the ones trying to rebuild society. Unfortunately, the only ones who will are able to read these records are ourselves. We’ve become meaningless graffiti, only noise in the background from the pure signal of core symbol languages.

Because there are a lot more of them, then there are of us.

For once, in a very long lifetime, I’m glad I’m blind.

Fiction : Grift/Graft – Warning : Contains violence, sci-fi

She was always invigorated after a job, that was no surprise. Every one was her last one. The small play, the long con, she knew them all.

I barely had time to open the door when she was on me. Her breath pushing heat back into my mouth, she always chewed on mints on the job. She grabbed my face and hair, hungry and in need, her lips found mine mashing hard. The goods fell to the floor, I saw her apology in her eyes and in an instant-
-Pain needling migraine strong behind my right eye
-Something moving off her hand in my peripheral vision-cold wet across my scalp-crawling across my skin in goosebumps as I could see she was silently trying to scream
-hearing crisp dress shoes coming up the back stairs
-her tongue pushing into my mouth-my pulse racing instinctively-instincts trying to pull me away
-the briefcase opening in slow motion
-her breath hitching-

Slammed me into the wall breaking the infinite moment. My head was a blur, what was going on?

“What was that?”

She was on me again, needing and pulling me into her. Blur again, her teeth on my neck, I could feel fibreglass stinging there, hissing I pushed her away. “The mark knows where we-”

And then she threw me to the floor, I skidded a little, head bouncing off the floor. I tried to tell her that the cleaners were coming, that anyone and anything-Time crawled and I couldn’t move, just felt her. My head was pushed to the side, her mouth hungry and stimulating my carotid, spined tingles up my spine as the waves of dizziness came over me. She pinned me to the floor with surprising strength.

Stomach churning- missing something in the case-that cold and wet again-circular spiked logo-that smell of mint-heart now pounding and my lungs failing-drowning in darkness- something blurred vision-

Hand smacking my face hard, tooth come loose. She was across the room now. Looking around, confused like a trapped animal.

“Angela, love you baby but if you keep this up-” Tried standing up, arms and legs stumbling like new born. Couldn’t feel my left side.

‘Submit.’ That was her voice, but her lips didn’t move. And it was devoid of all emotion. It came from-

“We gotta go, the cleaners.”

She stopped, and something flashed in my vision, stomach churning again, I bolted for the bathroom. I could hear the footsteps in the hallway. Reached for my phone, contact the cleaners, tell them to come in half an hour- My insides heaved and I couldn’t see again-Can’t go out like this-

Stumbling back out, one black suit on the floor, I could see a pair of shoes twitching marionette a foot off the floor. Angela holding one of the cleaners by the throat. Her little frame flexed up. My vision cleared again, and I could see the biohazard logos on the inside of the briefcase. Two of three vials, the other, they looked silver. That-

‘We’re marked.’ Her voice coming from somewhere. No, -my head? ‘Stop me! I can’t kill this-‘

Her body flexed and the cleaner stopped twitching.

“We gotta get to the train-”

Then standing up, she looked at me, she had the palest blue eyes, but I couldn’t see them. Her eyes, silver mirror pools, face hollow, and skin bruised. I went to her, finding the strength from the panic. An infinite tunnel of my face looking to hers in the reflected mirror to mirror. Wait that-

The command broadcast blast through the back of our heads with simultaneous spurting nosebleeds.

Suitcase. Latitude and longitude coordinates. Date and time. Obey or pain. End Transmission.

Something exploded along our spines in pleasure, energy, and pain. I could hear her scream in wrenching pleasure as they took. I’m sure she heard me. Our limbs moving jerkily beyond our- Control.

They were in control. We weren’t players anymore. Pawns. Marks. And with our eyes looking like we used mercury for contact lenses, we were marked. Marks.

The game got us. And I knew they set us up.

And the first opportunity I would get, I’d make sure this was our last job.

Flash Fiction : Hex Ranger

This was not the way she wanted to spend her birthday. She thought about the familiar phrase, ‘life was cruel’. There wasn’t going to be a tomorrow to hope for. She would not make it past her 18th birthday, no last nightfall or starshine wishes. Her fate to become a victim to an unknown threat, much like her parents so many years ago.

The last round fired. The reassuring kick from the gun absent. Only the empty clicking brought a sinking feeling to her stomach. By the weight of her belt, the spare clips already used and gone. She quickly swept back her long coat, holstered the guns and watched the twisted forms of the coyotes lope and began moving in for the kill. Her knuckles cracked as she formed fists, the leather creaking in her gloves.

She felt something buzz along her leg, and risking a glance down, she saw the toy. She also saw the glinting light coming from it. Reality broke and feeling like she had lost her mind, she grabbed the toy raygun. The antique metal began to squirm in her hand. It shifted and slid like a playful puppy trying to escape her grasp. A vibration built up in the small metal and chrome toy, then jolted along her body.

Her head was clear. The remainder of her hangover instantly sweated off, the smell of sour whiskey and adrenaline filled the area. Her lungs opened up, and all her muscles felt renewed ready to take on the predators, even by fist alone.

The coyotes stopped at that moment as one unit. She studied them for a moment, and realized there was something horribly wrong with each of them. The patchy fur was not mange, it was rot. The frothing at their mouths was not rabies, the bubbles seemed to churn and pulse. Some were missing limbs hobbling along, walking on ruined stumps and protuding bone. That was not sweat on their hides. An inky liquid that writhedand pulsed hrough the coyotes skin. It made her a little dizzy from the opalescent swirling colors.

Setting aside her sanity, she took aim with the antique toy and pulled the trigger.

A massive bolt of white green energy erupted from the raygun cutting a swath into the approaching predators. The air filled with the smell of charred fur. The animals erupted in alien barking andWhile wearing a 12 pound wig, six inch stilletos, and be ready for a show in five minutes. chattering in one voice. The sounds made Jane dizzy and almost sick to her stomach.

The pack began backing away from her in unison. She took a step forward. They stopped. The entire range went silent for a moment, the wind died down. As if they were one animal, the coyotes took one slow step back then stopped. Waiting.

Jane Calhoun brought the chromed metal raygun up to her chapped lips. She quickly gave a silent thanks to her grandfather. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of her cheek, and in a very tired voice she whispered. “No, not today. This range is mine.”

As promised

It’s late. I know I should have been writing all night, instead I had a great evening with a couple of friends at a local book store. They finally had to boot us out. And yes, I should have been writing, but I did pick up Ray Bradbury’s essays Zen and Writing. As well, as Stephen King’s On Writing. So that counts…. right?

Regardless, the story I submitted off for contest, did not make the short list. Hooray! As I referred earlier, it’s different, as well as trying to get a love story done in under 1500 words was a challenge enough. Started playing around with the idea of ‘All is fair in love and war’. Which if you’ve ever been in or out of love, or war, you know it’s not. The characters grew immediately. They may come back again, in an idea that my mother gave me for a storyline years and years ago. Then again, this might just be enough for them.

In the meantime, just remember, Love Isn’t Fair.

I’m still writing,


Fiction pending/Beat Poetry and others…

Currently I have 3 wtiting projects on the go, and skipping between them seems to be working for me. For now. A constant pressure to keep writing is being generated from skipping between the three of them. And I know, that cardinal rule, ‘Stick to one project, finish it.’ Think I have my own procrastination under control using this method. Not in the mood to write on Project A? Then pick at Project B, later on just add a couple of scenes to Project C. Wait, that extra bit in the outline for Project A needs to be added.

See what I mean? Currently it seems to work, only because none of the projects are under any type of deadline. If this was pay copy I was writing, this is what they would call disorganized. For now, it’s a writing workout regimen that seems to be working.

In other writing news, I did not make the shortlist for the CBC writes short story contest. Hooray! This means that you will be subjected to a piece that is (in my opinion) different than my other pieces. I wrote this up in the beginning of November, had a bit of fun with it too. Listening to beat poetry prior to writing set the pacing, at least in the opening sequence. As well, it marks off a sort of transition point in my writing. After this, I earnestly began to write and get a good chunk of my organic writing out of the way, let those words flow, but stick to an outline. It also marks off a spot where I actively challenged myself to write in a genre that I am not comfortable in.

And in all honesty, it is the one piece of writing that I hate the least. I am my own worst critic, but I have decided that the critic will still blab even if I have put my work out there or not. It’s not going to get read if I delete it off my computer, or dismiss the story idea out of my brain.

And for those of you who have not ever heard of Lord Buckley, it appears that Slam Poetry is alive and well in Canada. I attended a haiku deathmatch last night, did not participate, but was a blast when average people off the street (okay mainly the university) can do deadly battle using haiku’s as words. Charles Hamilton hosted up, smacking cymbal with kendo stick. And we were also treated to Khodi Dill’s amazing and brutally honest words on First Nations rights and lack of media coverage. (Just remember, the genocide will not be televised.) It was a lot of fun, and proof that not only poetry, but spoken word is an art that with the help of the indie arts scene and the internet, is well on it’s way for a comeback. Check your local area for Poetry Slam competition, you won’t be disappointed.

I’ve also been looking up more recipes. Explody bottle fun?

Fiction is pending, will post this week, probably friday.


Rest assured if it’s not posted up, I’m still writing,


NaNoWriMo – The Aftermath

22 Days into November, I pushed book 3 beyond the 50000 word mark. And that was just act 1 of three for the third book in the trilogy that I had laid out. A lot had changed in the time I originally planned out the trilogy. The main character was to enter into some espionage for the Queen, as well as do some infiltration, all the while being hunted and trying to maintain a double or triple cover…. Yeah, that didn’t happen. I totally turned her into a Mary Sue where she fixed out several situaions, but at least I made her independant enough to handle situations. Acts two and three for the third book are still in point form.

But the trilogy is done.

What did I learn this time around for this years efforts?
The days where I pushed and padded my daily word goal seemed to wear me out creatively, there just wasn’t enough to go by the time I hit the midway mark, pushing myself to get done faster. I had to take few days off here and there and step away from the writing. I’ve also learned that I can easily do the daily writing in this method, but it really does not make good quality story telling. It really isn’t.

I had to Deus Ex Magica/Machina all of the subplots out to concentrate onto the main character. This is what happens when you write organically and other characters jump up out of nowhere. Planning comes with set plans, as well as focuses your intention and keeps you on track for really good story telling. Which is something I need to do more of.

So the question everyone is asking me now is, when do we get to see it? I tell them, they won’t ever see this version, not unless they are willing to face my wrath. It truly is a trilogy of a zero draft. Some characters are too vapid and do not play the role, only to make other characters do things beyond what the main characters concentration. The plot stumbles along in the third book, impossible as I left book two ending. I’ve learned that I need to start the tension events and plot chapters in unexpected places to keep the pacing of the story. I’ve learned that unecessary details can be dropped and the reader can fill in the information that they need with their own imagination. I’ve also learned that I need to read more Bradbury to hone brevity and develop my own style of structure that will let the reader know my distinctive style.

The story idea is very basic and to do the story justice, I have to strip it right down to the bare basics. Develop the characters which play the proper roles, make their own struggles and achievements believable. I am contemplating a jump into a different genre with this story, as the fantasy genre is good, but there is a definite glut. Putting it into modern fantasy or urban fantasy will add some more necessary tension and developments, as well it would fit well with the overall main character theme of ‘hiding her latent talent’.

So if you honestly do want to read all three books, (over 50k words a piece) I will offer them to you, if I want. I know which parts shine and overall which huge swaths of blarney can be dropped. But if you bribed me with a very large sum of money, I’d release a heavily creative commons no-derivatives restrictive license version of the text stories to you. It maybe crap, but it’s my crap.

Last of all, I’ve learned that I need to stop thinking about the writing and just write. Given myself permission to make mistakes, and charge forth. To hesitate in the creative process only stops me, and I may become famous for making so many mistakes along the way. There is a phrase, something about having to love and lost… If I get lost along the way, know that I will be writing. If you like this post, leave feedback. If you really like this, tell a friend. If you absolutely love this, tell a friend and send money, then get them to send money. If you are beyond love and into insane obsession, get out of my bushes, shovel my walk or something, be a useful stalker.

I’m still here, (writing)

Up next? Music Reviews, flash fiction, food recipes and the like. Possible serial series that I’ve been alluding to? Or hints into sekrit projects that might take me down a different route creatively? If I don’t dream or plan big, then I won’t grow. And NaNoWriMo 2012? Not sure. It is time to make every month a writing effort.

Another lap around the sun

Hi, I’m Pearce Kilgour, you may know me from such events as, ‘Who is that guy and why is he wearing that hat?’ or ‘Is that a Geocacher or is-ooh, that branch got him good.’ Besides having my name misspelled on a daily basis, I have been known as the better geek that you should know. You’ll find musings, rants, reviews, and if the sun is shining just right, the occasional fiction post. Just poke around. I will in the near future put more fun stuff on here.

Yesterday, I completed my 36th lap around the sun. Well, I didn’t do much to help it out, the earth did quite a bit of that. So I give thanks.

Within the past lap around the sun, I’ve done the following
– I have travelled to the south end of Saskatchewan,
– Visited Disneyland and Universal Studios with my daughter (very crowded)
– Completed a 50’000 word novel in 22 days, (mainly adverbs, not even good first draft, book 2 of trilogy, book 1 was done last year’s NaNoWriMo)
– There is no fourth item, (It just neatly fills it out, take a look at the whole thing. Cool, right?)
– Shaved my chin to have just a moustache on halloween, (Magnum PI) and now growing out winter beard…(until I get tired of the facial hair, or when I know it will be warmer.)

Not too much of a big list, but a good start, considering that previously my life was primarily introvert and not accepting the world, hiding in books and video games. Just having a list of accomplishments and goals is better than not having one at all.

Thirty six laps, okay, years, enough of that silliness. And a lot of life changes. I’d like to think this not as a mid-life crisis at this point, but more of a renewal. (I’m kind of sure that the crisis is over, there is that small lingering doubt, but its a proactive fear, one that motivates me to be aware and not fall into previous habits.) There have been necessary hardships and heartaches to get to this point. But I’d like to think that I’m better than I was before. Some days I’m not really sure about being better, but I know the journey to becoming better is the right path to be on, despite the ups and downs.

I know within the next four years, I am going to swim in an ocean I have never been in. I know that I will have the workings of a possibly publishable draft of my writing in some form or another. And that I will keep working on my writing and fiction skills. But I’m finding that these larger goals are better off being smaller ones. And if I stumble and fail, fantastic. It’s going to be good learning from these mistakes.

Thanks for letting me make mistakes,