It’s almost noon on the first Saturday in December, and I’m right where I should be in life, although I have my own opinion about that. I began grad school in June this year, and in one week, I’ll have hit the half-way mark. The friends, the classes, the work, they all seem cronies of Time’s army.
And then there’s the writing.
This year I wrote two novels, and a short-story. That’s what stands out, at least. It’s a personal record (with regard to quantity), a new merit of my own self, for which I am thankful and satisfied. The writing I’ve done for school will never have any place, that I can see, on the walls of my own literary achievements. If anything, it is because of my own writings, that I am able to produce with the haste that I do in school. What is required there has no place in the English Language that I love.
But it’s all what it is, and in the end, the merit is minuscule to what the Universe (or God, or Allah, or whatever you know it as) sees. In less than a week’s time, I’ll be back home, with family and friends (other friends) and back to more of a regular writing schedule. I’ve loved it thus far. It’s only been four years (nowhere near the 10,000 hours of apprenticeship they all talk about), but a great four years all the same.
After working on his latest story, Jer asked what my next project was. Only the whisperings of another novel and short for now, just whisperings. This all requires planning – something for which I wish to use this month, end of the world or not.