Spiking the Haribos

Written in 2011, it’s amusing to me to look back to that time and see how I thought I was really old, ten years ago. Man, do I feel old now.


About three weeks ago, I read this weird drink recipe that involved soaking gummy bears in alcohol. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to find the original blog now, but it was on WordPress. Anyway, the gist was that if you allowed gummy bears to soak in alcohol, you wound up with… drumroll… wait for it… alcoholic gummy bears!

I have been a big fan of Haribo gummy bears since I was a kid. Even now, if I have a layover in Germany on a business trip, I always buy a big bag at the airport. And no, they don’t taste different in their country of origin. It’s just a thing I do.

So, loving Hairibo as I do and loving vodka as I do, well. It almost seemed a spiritual denial if I didn’t follow through on marrying these two loves. So, in short, I put a bag of gummy bears in a Tupperware container, covered the candies with Kettel One vodka, and put it in the refrigerator. And then I forgot about it until last weekend.

There was no vodka visible when I pulled them out, and the gummy bears had doubled in size. I took one moist and rubbery bear and popped it in my mouth. It was exactly like taking a Jell-O shot, except I am a lot older and not slurping it off some drunken chick in a bar. It was not bad as far as flavor or kick, but it was a complete fail for me in the flashback department.

It did give me an idea – what if you soaked Hairibo gummy-cola candy in bourbon? I just so happened to have both ingredients required for this and quickly poured Crown Royal over the cola bottle-shaped candies. Crown and Coke gummies! A week later, I tried one.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

You know, as much fun as it sounds – it was just slimy and gross. It was like I wasted great liquor on great candy. Back in my early 20’s, I had this same feeling. It was when I realized that cartoons weren’t entertaining anymore. It was the feeling of the world making me grow up. Be mature. I was changing my ideals.

So am I saying that no one should try this? Absolutely not. If you are above the legal drinking age and less old than I am (and largely, most people are), I suggest you give it a go. Just know that no matter how you fight it, you will grow up. To ultimately date myself, I now link you to The “Logical Song” by Supertramp.

I suggest you put off maturity as long as you can. Bottoms up… or gummies up, or whatever. I get so cranky if I don’t have my warm milk before bedtime.

© 2011, 2021 Mitch Lavender

The Sorrow (short story)

This piece is unpublished until now, and was originally written in 2012, using the “sticks” from The Writer’s Toolbox by Jamie Cat Callan for the “First Sentence” and two non-sequiturs.  These are marked in bold.  I also did one stick for “The Last Straw” which is supposed to introduce a dramatic arc, but it said “the hole in his sock” and though I could have wedged that in somewhere, I already had a dramatic arc that I liked and I almost hated “hole in his sock.

I won’t sing the praises of such gimmicks to induce creativity, but on this occasion, I had nothing to write about and it gave me something to write about. I hope you like it. – ML


Gustav sat down in the middle of the road and began to cry.  It wasn’t an unusual thing for him to do, not if you knew Gustav.   “Emotional and poorly equipped for the stresses of secular challenges” was how his last employer described him.  While that might sound particularly harsh, what pained Gustav most was that it was true.  Mostly.

Girls cry and the world rallies around, consoling and empathizing about… whatever.  A man cries, and the world judges him.  He’s weak.  He can’t cope.  He’s a Susie Sissy-Pants.  So be it, Gustav sobbed.  He’s had happier times.

Seven months ago, we were drinking champagne and losing our shirts in Vegas.  Gustav wasn’t a big drinker, so by the time we cracked open the second bottle, he was blitzed.  The blackjack table wasn’t kind to us, but we didn’t care.  It was our honeymoon, and we were in love.  We left Vegas the next day before we were completely broke.

The plane was two hours late taking off.  Sitting on the tarmac and baking in the desert sun, Gustav’s hangover got the worst of him.  Even though we weren’t in flight, they wouldn’t let him get up and go to the restroom, so he had to throw up in one of those little puke bags they stick in the seatbacks.  Still, it was a happier time for him than now.

Photo by Marina Hinic on Pexels.com

Gustav misses me.  When he turns on American Idol, he gets this vacant look.  He always had a vacant look when watching American Idol.  You know, he hated that show, but he watched it because I liked it and he wanted to be with me.  Now that I’m gone, he still watches it, so that’s how I know he misses me.

I’ll never forget the panic in his face.  His unblinking eyes wide as the distance grew between us; hand reaching out, his mouth gaping as I fell. I saw my reflection on the glass building, falling in tandem as I slid down, down, down to the pavement.  I think the horror of that moment shorted out something in Gustav.  He was never the same after that, prone to emotional outbursts and, often, tears.

It’s been almost seven months now, and the pull of the light is strong.  Soon, I will have to leave Gustav.  It’s not like I can help him, but I think he knows I am near and somehow is comforted by it.  Maybe just a little.  Maybe I don’t help at all, and what he needs is to move on.  I could be holding him back.  I probably am.

Time and distance will grow and blur the memory of me and that fatal moment you tripped, falling forward, knocking me over the balcony.  You never could hold your champagne.

I am cold here, and the light is so warm.  It’s time to forge on without me, my dear Gustav.  Soon, but not yet. Very soon, but  I am not ready to leave you, my dear wonderful, clumsy husband. Now, get out of the road before you get run over.

© 2012, 2021 Mitch Lavender

Should You Watch After Life on Netflix?

Someone thought it was a good idea for me to watch the Netflix series, After Life.

Here’s a brief summary of the show:

After Life follows Tony, played by Ricky Gervais, whose life is turned upside down after his wife dies from breast cancer, he contemplates suicide. Instead, he decides to live long enough to punish the world for his wife’s death by saying and doing whatever he wants. Although he thinks of this as his “superpower,” his plan is undermined when everyone around him tries to make him a better person. The show is set in the fictional town of Tambury, where Tony works as a journalist at a local free newspaper, the Tambury Gazette.

The show has a brilliantly dark sense of humor, punctuated with chillingly familiar events to me, having just lost my wife to cancer only two months earlier. The moments where Tony doesn’t see any point in going on and contemplates ending his life, only to realize he has a dog that needs him; that was me. The moments he is with his aged and infirm father and trying to do his best to hold it together for him, I’m in that place. The moments where he’s utterly unmotivated in his job; me. All of that and more was me.

It was too soon, and I couldn’t do it. Watching the show reduced me to a sobbing idiot in a matter of minutes. It hurt too much. I also resented the person who suggested it to me, though not as much as the asshat who, when I told him my wife had stage IV cancer, suggested I watch Sophie’s Choice.

Anyway, while still grieving a couple of months later, I try to watch After Life again. Nope, no good. I couldn’t handle it. Blubbering mess, pathetic, really.

Then, another two months later, around six months after Lynn died, I tried to watch it again. I don’t know what it was about this series that kept me returning to it after repeated bad experiences, but I did. I guess I thought it had some wisdom to impart. I thought it might have something to bring me a little peace, or solace, or something. Maybe I was inducing the most suffering I could or trying to lance a boil to get the puss out. I don’t know, but I came back to try to watch After Life again, a third time.

 This time, it was different. Oh, I certainly cried, but it wasn’t the gut-wrenching, pitiful sobbing like before. I watched and identified, and most importantly, I listened. Between all the jokes were genuinely inspirational moments – nuggets of wisdom. There were things I needed to hear; hopeful, little things:

“I Still Have My Downs, But Then Life Throws You These Interesting Little Things, Doesn’t It?”

“A Society Grows Great When Old Men Plant Trees Whose Shade They Know They Shall Never Sit In.”

“It Is Everything. Being In Love, I Mean.”

“Nothing’s As Good If You Don’t Share It.”

Those last two quotes resonated with me at the time. I had achieved some peace with the fact that Lynn was gone and wasn’t coming back, though it left me empty inside. I also came to terms with the fact that my ongoing grieving was something I was doing for me, not Lynn. I was grieving that I missed her so much, but this benefited her in no way. It made me a burden to those around me and who cared about me. I was determined to do a little better every day at carrying my grief without spilling it all over those around me, and I got stronger. I didn’t stop grieving, but I wasn’t breaking down in tears every day, and that was a marked improvement. I just carried it forward better.

It was then that I recognized something that was there all along – I was lonely. I wanted to be with Lynn, but that could not be. She was gone, and I was still here. It was that emptiness, and the loneliness that I was feeling now.

I will say this – from my experience, I learned that you never appreciate someone like you do when you know the day is coming that they won’t be there any longer. The last year with Lynn, as sick as she was, I loved her deeply and cherished every moment I had with her. That’s something I should have been doing all along, but I took for granted she would always be there. And then she wasn’t.

I was determined that, should I be fortunate enough to fall in love again, I would do my best to appreciate that woman with my whole heart and soul every single day, as if she won’t be there the next day,  because one day, she won’t be there. Or I won’t.

We all die, eventually. I don’t want to focus on that depressing thought, but I want to emphasize that the time we have is finite. We should appreciate it, appreciate the people around us that we love and who love us. We should make the most of the time we have. Be the kind of person that makes the world a better place just by the way we live their lives.

Watching After Life helped me arrive at that conclusion. More than that, that I was able to watch After Life was a litmus test, the yardstick by which I could measure how ready I was to re-enter life and pick up the pieces. Even the ability to find someone to love, which I did, and I do.

The core message of After Life is this:

“Good People Do Things For Other People. That’s It. The End.”

Being self-absorbed and rude gets us nowhere. Being nice, spreading love, offering a helping hand, and committing the occasional random act of kindness are the way to make our time on this Earth count, and if you have someone special to do it with, all the better.

Should you watch After Life on Netflix?

Absolutely.

When It Got Better – Grieving the Loss of a Spouse

If you’re grieving the loss of a spouse, I’m so sorry. There is no grief, no emptiness, no pain I have ever felt like it. All through the grieving process, I was looking for some relief, something to make it better. What I learned was, for me, the only way out of it was through it. While everyone does this differently, I’m going to relate the process where I turned the corner and finally started living again, with the hope that it may offer you some insight, or hope, or a sense of not being alone. I’m not saying this is the way you should do it – it’s just what I did.

It took me a while to come to terms with the fact that Lynn was gone and was never coming back. She lost her fight with cancer on March 6, 2020. For months after that, I was overcome with grief and depression that left me incapacitated and barely able to function. I was surrounded by constant reminders that she was gone.

One thing that continued to worry me was, if there is an afterlife, and Lynn is in that place, I don’t want her hanging around here because she thinks she needs to look after me, or worse, wants to be with me but can’t. That would be profoundly sad. If she is in some unlikely afterlife, I sincerely want her to move on with her new existence, knowing that I loved her dearly. And I need to do the same. So, that was a strange conversation I had with a dark, empty room one weird, inebriated night, but it gave me peace when I was done.

Then, about six months after Lynn died, I got an offer from my Sister-in-Law and her husband to help me clear out Lynn’s belongings. This is something I had not been able to face alone. It was three months before I could even pick up her shoes left beside the bed, much less clean out drawers or closets. I gratefully accepted the offer, and as it turned out, they did all the real work, and I just pointed at things that needed to go, and they took care of it. Still, I was reduced to tears several times a day during the process, and it was emotionally exhausting. I felt like I was throwing away what I had left of Lynn, but then I would remind myself, rightly, that these are just things, and Lynn is already gone. I can’t throw away what is already gone.

When it was over, the closet, bedroom, and bathroom had been cleaned out, and most of Lynn’s belongings were gone. It was a huge load lifted from my shoulders, and it felt good not to have this unpleasant task hanging over my head, waiting for me to address it. I couldn’t do it alone, and I’m very grateful to Joe and Karla for the help.

For me, cleaning out Lynn’s belongings was a seminal event. It was when I began to accept what was. I even started looking forward to what might be, and this was when I began to regain my love of life again. I could relish the memories rather than mourn the loss, and for the first time in a very long time, I could see the possibilities for my future.

Over the next month or so, the loneliness began to take hold. I had emotionally released myself from my previous marriage, but I missed having someone special to share life’s moments. That’s when life is the richest – when it is shared. So I began actively seeking someone, but it turned out that I was not quite ready, and I backed off. I let myself grow into being single for a while. That was when I really found myself and became determined to enjoy my life again.

When I was ready, I began dating. In the age of Covid, that meant lots of phone and video calls. It was pretty surreal at times, not only the virtual aspect of meeting new people, but dating at my age was just odd. Eventually, I met Kathy, fell in love, and I am going to marry her. We’re really good together.

So that’s where I am, now, over ten months later. It may take you more or less time. It just takes as long as it takes. Your seminal moment may be from something completely different. Whatever it is, whenever it is, whatever it takes, just get through it and hang on until you do. That’s the tough part. Just get there.

KFG.

Kindness vs. 2020

Is there anyone who would disagree that 2020 has been one of the worst years of their life, if not the worst year? I don’t think so. Here’s the thing – while we’re all going through 2020 and the constant hell it pitches at us, it’s not the same for us all.

It’s like we’re all in the same storm, but some of us have yachts, some have canoes, and some are just trying to tread water. Yes, and you know which one you are. I certainly know which one I am, and I would have gone down if it was not for others’ love and kindness.

Sometimes, this empathy came from close friends and family. My sister-in-law and her family were fantastic support during Lynn’s illness and treatment. A friend threw me a line when I looked down a long dark tunnel that was my lonely future without Lynn, and I saw no light at the end, whatsoever. I’m so glad I have people like this in my life. But I was helped by other people. People that may not even know they helped me.

I have Facebook friends that continued to bolster me through bad days with a few words of encouragement. I belong to a closed Facebook group for those who have lost loved ones to cancer, and we help each other through the horrible days and nights as we transition into being widows and widowers, sharing experiences and sympathizing in ways no one else could.

I bet when these kind folks wrote the replies, they thought nothing of it, but it helped me. When you are drowning, you will grasp at anything that floats.

That’s what I want to emphasize here: In such shitty times, being kind where and when you can will make a difference in someone’s life. You may not know what or how much, but it helps. I know your life is probably no bed of roses, no pleasure cruise (a nod to Freddie), which makes your effort to be kind all the more thoughtful.

Even as I was barely keeping my head above water, I would see someone else floundering as I was, and I’d reach out to them, and somehow, we were able to help buoy each other, comfort each other, if for only a little bit.

Now, I have personally come through the worst 2020 could hurl at me, and I’m still standing, but that is thanks to others’ kindness and support. I couldn’t have done it alone. But this pandemic will extend into the next year until most of us get vaccinated. The political divisiveness and hatred that troubles America now will continue beyond the current administration, possibly for a long time. The unemployment and businesses that didn’t make it and will take a long time to recover. And people we love will continue to die. None of that stops because of the year incrementing. We must keep being kind to each other.

People, 2020 was no good for any of us. It was worse for some, and still much worse for others, and for that, I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to be entirely overwhelmed by daily responsibilities. I know what it’s like to wake up and not be able to think of a single reason to get out of bed. I know what it’s like to look into the future and see nothing but pain and loneliness. If this is you, I say this specifically for you:

Keep Fucking Going.

You won’t see why you should, and that’s okay. Just keep fucking going.

You won’t think it matters, and that’s okay. Just keep fucking going.

You might think the pain is too much or the love in the world is too little, and it’s not worth it, and that’s okay. Just keep fucking going.

Just keep fucking going, because one day, when it’s time, you’ll turn a corner, and you will see things differently. You don’t have to believe me; just keep fucking going. Just hang on. Please.

Keep fucking going, and be kind to yourself.

I Read a Book

Have you ever read a book that you so thoroughly enjoyed, you were sad when you finished it? You so loved it; you just wanted it to go on and on, endlessly.

I read a book like that. I was enthralled with it. Every day, I woke up and would immerse myself in it, and the story was so rich. The prose was immaculate. Sometimes, the story took an unexpected turn and challenged the protagonists. I dearly loved that book. All too soon, it ended, and I was unbelievably sad. So that book, as cherished and loved as it is, is done.

That book I so dearly loved was my marriage to Lynn. It was amazing and fulfilling, and it ended heartbreakingly when she died earlier this year.

I always thought I knew what depression was. I thought I had had times in my life where I was depressed. Then Lynn died, and I realized I was wrong, and I have never been depressed before. That was just sadness. This feeling, this – this is depression, and it is soul-crushing. Slowly, throughout seven months, I began to heal and regain my love of life. It was hard fought, but I learned to relish the memories rather than mourn the loss.

So now, I’m lonely. I have love to give and no one to give it to, and I know Lynn would want me to be happy. I have no book to read, and I haven’t opened the cover of another book for 32 years. Before Lynn, I had read some awful books. Crazy, even. I dreaded starting another book, but I had to.

I tried starting a couple of books but they weren’t right for me. Then I found Kathy. Or she found me, or whatever.

Turns out, Kathy is a wonderful book. Yes, of course, it was the cover that first attracted me, but the depth of the story sucked me in. Every page I turn, I’m enchanted by what I learn. It’s as if this book was written just for me. I adore the prose, and I can see myself settling in and losing myself between these beautiful pages for a long, long read with her. Yes, I love her.

Moritorium – In Memory of John Douglas Martin, August 22, 1971 – February 24, 2012

“Can you moratorium a cubicle?  You know, put it in a state where no one could occupy it?”

It was a stupid thought, and I was grateful that I didn’t say it out loud.  A moratorium on Doug’s cubicle wouldn’t bring him back.  Doug would still be dead, no matter what.  The cubicle was just the place he worked.  It was not him, nor was he the sort of person that he let his work define him.  Sure, personal items decorated the space, but it was still, just a cubicle.

As the admin dutifully boxed up Doug’s possessions to clear out the cube, sadness took me, and tears tried to rise.  I fought them down – not the time or the place or the situation.  These moments have been sneaking up on me ever since the funeral.  In these moments, I realize, really realize Doug is gone, and I will not see him again.  And that sucks.

Doug was the sort that would do almost anything for anyone. 

Doug, I need a ride to the other side of town at midnight. 

Doug, I need $300, and I don’t know when I can pay you back. 

Doug, I was stung by jellyfish, and I need you to piss on the wound to neutralize the poison

I never asked him any of those things, but I know if I had, he would have complied.  He also would have thought the pissing on me thing was hysterical, too. 

Doug was a guy I worked with, but he was a guy I worked with that really, truly touched my heart.  He wasn’t average, and that always seems to be the way these things go.  The jackass you work with that you sometimes wished would die, he doesn’t.  The good-natured, funny guy that everyone likes, he dies needlessly.  I look for balance in the universe, and I swear I cannot find it in this situation.  It isn’t fair.

 “Good Morning, JOHN.”  He would call me John because I let it slip once that I don’t like going by my first name, John.  This, of course, ensured that Doug would call me John at every possible opportunity.  It was always with a smirk and in fun, but only because he knew it got to me.  Though it was annoying, it was also funny.  An inside joke that everyone was in on.

More than once, Doug invited me to go with him to Mexia and shoot guns or just get smashed on the weekend.  I always declined.  Need to get home… things to do… going to wash my hair, etc.  And I did have other things to do, but I also thought there would be another time.  I ran the clock out, and the opportunity is no more.  Hindsight is 20/20, so they say.  Hindsight sucks.

And that is what I remember about Doug.  Most of it is what I know he would be like, not really what I know he was like.  And I think that is what I mourn most and why I suddenly am given over to tears at the oddest times – I had the opportunity to spend time with a very cool person, and I didn’t, and now that opportunity is gone.

Cool people are rare.  No, really, they are rare.  Honestly, think about how many truly cool people you know.  I bet it is just a few.  Don’t miss the opportunities to be around them while you can.

In memory of John Douglas Martin,  August 22, 1971 – February 24, 2012

© 2012, 2020, Mitch Lavender

Solo Board Gamer, Me?

One of the things that I like about analog gaming is that you get together and interact with real people, face to face. While the video game medium has come a long way in adding a social aspect to the gaming, it simply does not compare to the richness of a real-life experience with friends, sitting around the table and gaming together, albeit competitively.

Now, there are solo board games or, more commonly, multiplayer board games that have a solo play mode. Viticulture, Scythe, and Terraforming Mars are popular games in the hobby that can be played solo. In the past, I considered sitting at a table, playing a board game by oneself the equivalent of gaming masturbation. It just seemed sad to me and I didn’t see the point, particularly when many of my favorite games absolutely thrive on the interaction of the players.

34 - Fresco

Continue reading

Thank You, Murphy

Murphy was a Rat Terrier we got as a puppy. He died in October of 2017 when he was 10 years old.

murphy 3

Thank you, Murphy.  Thanks for protecting the backyard from squirrels, birds, and neighbors doing things on the other side of the fence.  You would bark and protect us all.  Never once did a squirrel, bird, neighbor or delivery person harm us.  Thank you.

Continue reading

Changes

I wrote this in September of 2013 and I was 49 years old, leaving an 18-year career with Microsoft and preparing to start work as a manager at AT&T. It’s an indulgent and heavy-handed write but I’m sharing it here for those who might find themselves in a similar career change and need some reassurance and more to the point, might try to do it alone.


Changes
By Mitch Lavender

20150329_180144899_iOS.jpg

I knew the way and the path was familiar even though this was a new pilgrimage.

Corporations are treacherous catacombs, filled with dead-ends and devastating fates for the unwary.  Eighteen years, I have navigated these passages but too late, I realized I took a wrong turn.  All around me, peers and superiors told me otherwise and that the path was true, but I knew otherwise.  I knew, but it was too late.

Continue reading

Don’t Kill the Dog (for authors)

There are places that authors fear to tread and rightly so.  Some things are taboo and off limits, even in the fictionalized place where we create our stories and taking a certain plot twist can completely lose a reader or worse, make them angry.

I have a tendency to write dark fiction and that is thin ice to tread.  It’s not hard to make a wrong move.  It takes scruples and sense of self to avoid it because when weaving a story (i.e., pantsing), it has a life of its own; taking a direction that almost seems to be beyond the author’s control.  The story is completely in the author’s control of course, but it can sometimes feel like it has its own personae and is making choices for itself, such as having your antihero become a predator on the weak, vulnerable or trusting.  Who would like Batman if he was a rapist or child molester?   Rapists and Child molesters, that’s who, and no one else.

Continue reading

My Top 5 Board Games That Feature Asshat Backstabbery

Asshat Backstabbery. Two words that are universally understood despite the fact that they do not exist in any legitimate dictionary, anywhere. I’m listing five board games that feature deception and cutthroat strategy as a key way of getting a leg up (or a knee on the throat) of your opponents. These are games where being mean and pitiless are expected but more than that, you can benefit from capitalizing on an opponent’s weakness. Lifelong friendships are ruined, families divided, and marriages crumble.

Continue reading

Essay: Time to Stop

Lynn handed me the fortune from her fortune cookie.

“This is for you.”

I took the tiny slip of paper and read aloud, “Don’t be afraid to take that big step.”

20150329_180144899_iOS

“What do you think that means?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but my lucky numbers are 2, 5, 8, 11, 15 and 54.”

She laughed and let me off the hook. I know that she knows she let me off the hook.

I’ve been teetering on the edge for years, trying to balance my career in IT that paid my bills and supported my family with my alter-ego’s career of being a writer, which took me away from my family. I’ll add that being a writer requires doing shameless self-promotion that I detest doing. It is akin to standing in the middle of a busy supermarket, pulling my pants down and yelling, “Look what I can do!” as I hop around like an epileptic donkey.  If self-promotion was an Apple product, it would be called iHateit.

Once, I tried to leave my body while doing self-promotion. No, really. I actually tried to astral project to anywhere but the place where I was pandering my book to some politely disinterested group. It’s no better selling to the black hole of the internet where no one can hear you scream. For the record, it didn’t work – the astral projection or apparently, the self-promotion.

Lynn knew how I hated it though we never talked about it. I knew she knew, and she knew I knew she knew.

Later that night as we lay in bed together and before we curled up and went to sleep, I decided to answer her question.

“What would be a big step?”

I turned and looked at her.

“I want to stop trying to be a writer.”

I had never used those words together in a sentence before. Just saying it felt fresh and new. Was this what is like when a woman douches? I don’t know, but saying it felt good. I could leave the unclean, messy part about self-promoting behind and just write because I like to write, and if no one reads it, meh. It’d be great if someone did, but it’s not key. I no longer fail if they don’t.

I can be THAT guy – the guy who just writes for fun. For FUN!

Wow.

I was so excited, I leapt from bed and standing there in my underwear, I said more words I have never uttered before: I don’t have to write. I don’t have to blog. I don’t have to self-promote!

I was heady from the sacrilege and heresy of my own words. I had just broken my own taboo rules and it made me giddy.

Don’t get me wrong on this, I love writing. Still, in my attempt to improve and produce and be recognized, I have held my own feet to a very hot fire. It was not uncommon for me to sit down at the keyboard and not allow myself to go to bed until I wrote 500 words. Sometimes it was 1000 words. Sometimes it was to edit 20 pages, or submit work to a reviewer. These were arbitrary and unhealthy practices but I did it to myself to force growth, and I did them after working my real job all day long.

In the process of doing this relentlessly, year after year, I broke something. It was like a spring that had been wound too tight and snapped. I don’t think it is something that will fix itself.

One of my favorite quotes is from the author of Fahrenheit 451 and Martian Chronicles, Ray Bradbury. He said, “You only fail if you stop writing.”

L64-Bradbury-WP1

It’s a good quote. Really, it distills all the fluff and pretense and puts it in perspective: Keep writing.

I will keep writing and by that measure, I have not failed. I simply have stopped being hardcore and mad about it, and I have stopped because it isn’t getting me anywhere. It might get me to an early grave if I kept at it, dead from a heart attack. I’m ok with giving that a miss for a few more decades.

Until that day, I’ll continue to write, casually.

 

Ed. This is a fictionalized account and may or may not be true, hallucinated or completely fabricated out of thin air. Perhaps it was a fanciful thought of yours. You know how you daydream. We all know how you daydream.