Talk

I talk a lot about editing and how much I dislike it, which is the truth. The problem is I tend to write as I think and some words just don't make it onto paper. I've noticed another problem, I  substitute 'a' for whatever word I'm thinking of , yet can't remember how to spell, when my fingers are flying at a blazin' 45 w/m. As you can tell, I'm not the fastest typist, which I think is another problem. My mind is working fast than I type at times and therefore I skip things. Either way, no matter how careful I am, I invariably screw it up. In Burden, I screwed it up a lot, but I think with Burden part of it was my disjointed writing as I fought with where the story was leading. Near the end, I hope it gets better, but for now it's painfully bad.

Good news on Burden, however. I had my son read the new ending and he thought it was excellent.

Now for something different:

Time doesn't make the heart grow fonder. Neither does distance. Both create broken men with broken hearts who yearn for better times and better days, though those wants are like ships in the distance. They hover at the edge of perception where, in a blink of an eye, they can disappear over the horizon never to be seen again. And, despite hope, they may never reach the same port again as despair overwhelms the senses. 

There's a saying, actually a few, which proffer to propose if you love something, let it go. If it comes back, then it was meant to be. I'm not a big fan of letting go. Actually, I'm not a big fan of finding either because something always seems to be unsettling within me. I call it doubt, and it spreads like a virus, invades like a weed. Once it has a foothold, it's almost impossible to remove it. This is where it stands now, crushing the life out of me.

Do I endure or do I succumb? It's the choice only old men have to make. Or maybe it should be, it's what makes us old men.