Tough week

Well, it's been a long week, and it's not over yet. Today I found out that a project I am working on with a group needs to be done next week, as opposed to in two weeks from now. So we have to get cracking. I take comfort from the thought that this means I will be done with one of my classes a week early.

I have allowed my focus to slide too much during this week. I could have accomplished more, could have supped more from the moments and minutes of each day. I will do better.

I've written about 500 words today and have about 700 words of the next chapter in Servant of the King done. I have also gotten a solid start on the write-up of my MA project.

I wonder if all writers experience the fluctuations from confidence to despair--sometimes in a matter of minutes? I wonder how long I can make my skin thick so that when I enter three writing contests and don't place in even one of them, I don't give into the feeling that I really ought to just throw in the towel? I wonder why companies who advertise job openings with descriptions that look like they were lifted from my resume don't seem to realize I am the best man for the job?

Is it possible that this absurdity called "Overqualified" is a reality in today's corporate world?

I don't think we're supposed to struggle and scrape every second of every day until I make it as an author. I mean, that's still going to be a ways out, barring a wonderful, welcome miracle. So I fully expect to land a full time job.

I just pray it can be soon so that some of the pressure will be released. Just a bit, please?

And I wonder if our nation is going to regain greatness or if the clear trends in our government and the paternalistic state we are moving toward are signs of a permanent change?

For now, I better apply for some more jobs. And when I kneel in prayer before I go to sleep, I intend to express vocal thanks for the gift of storytelling and the story in Servant of the King in particular. And when I do that, I am sure I will- as happens so often- feel the sweetness of the still, small voice of the Spirit of my Father. I will put images of long rows of mediocre books filling bookstores out of my mind. I will force thoughts of hopelessness out and I will let Charity in.

Remembering September 11 eight years ago.

I'm posting a poem I wrote about 9/11 here.

Please feel free to share if you feel it merits your support.

Hearts and minds

Time passes through our bodies

hearts and minds

like a cold, blunt knife

through butter

Changing our form

hearts and minds

with the heavy gravity

of aging life

Pushing and bullying memory

into the black-topped

shadowed, forgetting corners

of aging life

Hearts and minds

defy time’s violence

holding tightly to memory

pulling love from shadow

Cleaving to pain and tragedy.

Hearts and minds

disciplined by duty

will never forget.