Another night slipped by me disguised as TV show relevance and the all-important “downtime”. I woke up a bit earlier than usual but still got no writing done. When I look back on those lackadaisical moments in my writing journey I wonder if I really want to write, period. I received a phone interview for a potentially better job, got my BA diploma in the mail and spent most of the night revelling in these momentary triumphs. Pretty irritating now.

Part of it is depression. I’ve battled depression for many years and like many people it was a one-sided battle. Depression knew I was around and what I could do, but I hadn’t a clue about Depression at all. A counselor some years ago told me I had mild Depression. That made me sad. Writing provides a feeling of both meaning and legacy. Perhaps meaning, in a practical sense, is a Legacy. Like an old fat man who leaves his son a used-car dealership I want to leave my kids a legacy. It may only be the following:

“My Dad wrote stories because his dream was to be a writer. He never was published, made any money or became famous outside our little town. But he dreamed and worked towards his dream. I WILL DO THE SAME.”

That mi amigos y amigos is a legacy.

beep.

I stole “beep” from a friend who uses it in emails to signify a new topic is coming up. I like my friend. And I like “Beep”. It fits.

beep.

I don’t get why Louisiana has to wait on permits from the federal government to build sand berms to aid in blocking oil from hitting the coast line. What are the Feds waiting for, an environmental study? Um, millions of gallons of oil hitting the coast in the next few days…there’s your environmental impact of NOT granting the permits. dumbass.

beep.

Israel should be able to protect itself against any potential threats from the Palestinians. It sucks that 9 people were killed. It also sucks that those 9 people decided going into a war zone was a good career choice.

beep.

I’m looking into making my beer. “Stingy John’s Southern Lager”. Look for it at invisible grocers everywhere. It’ll be next to the canned Snipe and campaign fliers for America’s Honest Politician.

beep.

Speaking of honest politicians: recall, I write fiction.

beep.

Raymond Chandler didn’t get published until he was 45 years old. In his career he essentially wrote about 8 stories and reworked them into larger novels as needed. Inspiration. I figure if I’m 70 or so before I”m published I’ll use Grandma Moses. It can always be worse. I”m working on a story now called The Legend of Red Hammer. I like it so far and plan on posting most (probably all) of it on here soon. No one has read this thing and I have no idea how to Promote it. But I’ll learn, I guess.

Talk to you tomorrow. Hopefully.

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