The internet has brought the world closer together, there's no denying it. Businessmen from Kansas are exchanging idea's with College Students in Bangkok. Mother's and daughters on opposite coasts are twittering recipes to one another. But distance isn't the only the gap the internet has allowed us to bridge. We've been given the opportunity to travel back in time as well. For proof all you have do is take a look at the friends listed on your Facebook profile.
I have 59 friends listed on my facebook profile (what . . . you don't have 315 like everyone else?) and over half of them are from my high school years. These are people that I knew (some better than others) thirty four or more years ago. What does that tell you? What it tells me is that those four years were a special time in my life and I'll welcome any and all who'd like to help me celebrate it.
I moved away from the place I attended high school (Havelock NC) the day after graduation and I've never been back, although I have thought about it plenty of times. For decades my only link to that time was the yearbooks that were buried in a box, collecting dust in the attic. When it came time for the schools 25th class reunion I stumbled across a web-site promoting the gathering. I was intrigued and curious. What would the guys that I sat around a cafeteria table with talking about girls, be like now? What would those girls be like? I joined the site and started re-familarizing myself. As a result, I reconnected with my best friend (Greg) from school and developed a lasting friendship with a woman (Karen) I barely knew while I was at HHS. One of the most surprising things I discovered by surfing that site was how much I had forgotten. Or at least I thought I had forgotten. The more I messaged back and forth with my old classmates, the more that came back to me. And as the memories returned, I realized that my problem wasn't I had forgotten so much. The truth was that I really didn't know the people I went to school with very well, both then and now.
I am not one of those people who cry about hating high school, who cut class whenever they had the opportunity. I liked going to school. I got along with the majority of my teachers. I liked seeing my friends. Everyday was an adventure in social exploration. I didn't have all that many friends, but the ones I had were important to me. I know now that I was seen as being aloof, standoffish, but in reality I was just painfully shy. That prevented me from getting to know so many more of my truly intersting classmates.
I made it a point to tell both of my children (who are in college now) to always spread their wings, to try and make friends with their classmates outside their normal social circle. Even if it's painful or embarassing. Make the attempt.
The memories you really miss, are the ones you never make.
Passions - Music
So you can probably guess that one of my passions in life is writing. Duh! A no-brainer there. But what may be not so obvious are what some of the others might be? What is it that excites me? What am I enthusiastic about? What consumes most of my free time?
Music is another part of me that I am truly passionate about. Listening to it, not playing it. I tried to learn how to play guitar once, and got pretty good on some simple tunes, but unfortunately I was blessed with small fingers which proved more difficult than I could overcome. And I'm not a singer, but that has never stopped me from belting out a tune in the car or shower (just ask the family). But just because I'm not musically inclined, doesn't mean I'm not musically inclined.
My love of music developed late, but I made up for lost time with a vengence. The first album I ever owned was BTO's (Bachman Turner Overdrive) NOT FRAGILE, obtained during my senior year of high school. Coincidentally, BTO was the first concert I ever attended. When I graduated high school I probably owned a dozen albums. After the first year in college I owned about a hundred! This was back in a time when new release albums could commonly be found on sale for $2.99. My various roomates throughout college, as well as my other friends, all had wide ranging musical tastes and I listened to it all. Rock, Jazz, Bluegrass, Country, Orchestra, I took it all in and found something to like in every genre. And we weren't just listeners, we were students. We memorized every album cover, all the linear notes, anything and everything. When a tune played on the radio we would take turns identifying the song name, album it was on, the year it was released, and the group member names and instruments they played.
Music was a constant. It played in the background continually. I can't think of a time now when music isn't part of the memory. Sometimes the memory revolves around the music. My roomate going nuts the first time he heard Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. Another roommate playing the Urban Cowboy sound track over and over after breaking up with his girfriend. The song that was playing when you asked your first girl to dance. Those are the ones that are entrenched deep.
Still today, music is my constant companion. In whatever job I've had, I've always have had some kind of radio/cassette/CD/MP3 player churning out soft tunes. At night and on weekends you can find me at my PC with my headset on, listening to songs from the numerous music sites I visit, constantly searching for that new one to add to my collection. Last year I converted all of my old vinyl albums (approximately 700 of them) to digital files and put them on my Ipod.
I still haven't explained what it is about music that gets under my skin and causes me to go through withdrawl symptoms if I'm without it for very long. There have been much better writers than me who have attempted to literate the attraction, but my favorite qoute is from an unknow author:
MUSIC IS WHAT FEELINGS SOUND LIKE.
Music moves me. It lifts me up. It makes my heart race. It calms my soul. It opens my eyes to the creativity around us. It shows me that there is more to this world then just blueprints and formula's, just as there is more to music than just notes on a page.
I know that if I sat down and figured up how much money I've devoted to my music, it would be considerable.
And worth every penny.
Music is another part of me that I am truly passionate about. Listening to it, not playing it. I tried to learn how to play guitar once, and got pretty good on some simple tunes, but unfortunately I was blessed with small fingers which proved more difficult than I could overcome. And I'm not a singer, but that has never stopped me from belting out a tune in the car or shower (just ask the family). But just because I'm not musically inclined, doesn't mean I'm not musically inclined.
My love of music developed late, but I made up for lost time with a vengence. The first album I ever owned was BTO's (Bachman Turner Overdrive) NOT FRAGILE, obtained during my senior year of high school. Coincidentally, BTO was the first concert I ever attended. When I graduated high school I probably owned a dozen albums. After the first year in college I owned about a hundred! This was back in a time when new release albums could commonly be found on sale for $2.99. My various roomates throughout college, as well as my other friends, all had wide ranging musical tastes and I listened to it all. Rock, Jazz, Bluegrass, Country, Orchestra, I took it all in and found something to like in every genre. And we weren't just listeners, we were students. We memorized every album cover, all the linear notes, anything and everything. When a tune played on the radio we would take turns identifying the song name, album it was on, the year it was released, and the group member names and instruments they played.
Music was a constant. It played in the background continually. I can't think of a time now when music isn't part of the memory. Sometimes the memory revolves around the music. My roomate going nuts the first time he heard Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. Another roommate playing the Urban Cowboy sound track over and over after breaking up with his girfriend. The song that was playing when you asked your first girl to dance. Those are the ones that are entrenched deep.
Still today, music is my constant companion. In whatever job I've had, I've always have had some kind of radio/cassette/CD/MP3 player churning out soft tunes. At night and on weekends you can find me at my PC with my headset on, listening to songs from the numerous music sites I visit, constantly searching for that new one to add to my collection. Last year I converted all of my old vinyl albums (approximately 700 of them) to digital files and put them on my Ipod.
I still haven't explained what it is about music that gets under my skin and causes me to go through withdrawl symptoms if I'm without it for very long. There have been much better writers than me who have attempted to literate the attraction, but my favorite qoute is from an unknow author:
MUSIC IS WHAT FEELINGS SOUND LIKE.
Music moves me. It lifts me up. It makes my heart race. It calms my soul. It opens my eyes to the creativity around us. It shows me that there is more to this world then just blueprints and formula's, just as there is more to music than just notes on a page.
I know that if I sat down and figured up how much money I've devoted to my music, it would be considerable.
And worth every penny.
Sex at the Drive-in
I was reminiscing with a co-worker recently and the topic of awkward first dates came up. I didn’t have to contemplate very long. My walk down memory lane led me straight to the drive-in, where a good portion of my memorable “date from hell” was spent. Now I have you thinking…drive-in…awkwardness…date from hell…SEX…this has gotta be good. Right?
The girl in this date, Evelyn, was a long time family friend who wanted to be more than that. When we were in our early teens and lived in Silver Springs Maryland, she had the biggest crush on me (ask anyone). I never really “clicked” with her though. Maybe it was because I had known her for so long and she felt more like family than anything else to me. Whatever the reason, I was relieved when my family transferred away and we didn’t see each other for years.
During July of 1976, I was at home on break from my sophomore year at LSU. Evelyn was 20 and living in North Carolina, but she and her mother were visiting my family in New Orleans for a week. Right away I could tell she was ready to pick up where she left off, wanting to take the friendship to “the next level”. I still wasn’t too keen on the idea. I hemmed and hawed as long as could before being pressured into a taking her on a date by the two mothers. I know that wherever my mom is right now, she is still snickering over that one.
Trying to make the date as innocent as possible, I selected Joe’s Crab Shack for dinner. It was very popular and busy, which meant the romance quotient would be low (no quiet candle lit dinners). Afterwards we would see a light comedy (heavy drama, sci-fi or horror tend to make dates clench onto you) at the local cineplex. I was feeling pretty confident. I was sure I could get through the date without allowing Evelyn the slightest possibility for physical interaction. That is until I learned that she discovered we had a drive-in theater just a few miles from where we lived. And it showed classic double features every Friday night, which she LOVED. I reluctantly agreed to the change in plans, my apprehension now twisting knots in my stomach that an eagle scout could be proud of.
The movies on tap for the coming Friday? Night of the Living Dead and The Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Gulp.
The night started off well. The restaurant was crowded and our small talk had to be yelled across the table. I didn’t say much. I kept stuffing crab legs into my mouth so I wouldn’t have to.
My mood started to sour as we made our way from the diner to the drive-in, whereas Evelyn’s mood seemed to improve. We had arrived a little early, so we were able to pull my brother’s El Camino into an open slot on the front row. The borrowing of my brother’s car was another strategic move on my part. I wasn’t going to take my Chevy van, with all the possibilities that could offer. I told (fibbed) Evelyn that I was having problems with my alternator. She seemed disappointed.
The drive-in was older than I was and the deterioration over the years were evident everywhere. The front of the complex, underneath the screen where a recreational park had once been, was now overgrown with shrubs. A obscure breed of grey dog was roaming near the corner of the fence, sniffing for food. At least I thought so until I saw him raise his leg and relieve himself. A smaller dog, brown I think, was weaving in and out between the cars looking for a handout. All of the posts where the audio speaker boxes were housed were badly in need of a paint job. The enormous white screen itself was in surprisingly good shape, with only a slight tear in the upper left hand corner.
Not long after we had settled in other cars pulled into the slots on either side of us. On our left was an older middle age couple who were dressed in matching sweaters, and to the right were two couples of high school age kids. I noticed all of this because I was trying to focus my attention everywhere but inside my own car.
I quickly realized that I had made a tactical error in selecting my brother’s car to bring. Even though the van would have been a disastrous choice, it had bucket seats up front. My brother’s El Camino had just a single bench seat. No sooner had I turned off the ignition, Evelyn slid over to my side of the car as if she had a magnet in her pocket and I was made of metal.
Now my anxiety level was really peaking. I truly had no desire to “swap spit” or any other bodily fluids with Evelyn, but I also didn’t know how to say no without hurting her feelings. My mind was churning furiously, trying to think of anything that might ruin the mood for her, and be a reprieve for me. I rolled down my window and started reaching for the speaker when I noticed that it was missing. In the spot where it would normally sit was a small sign that read FOR SOUND TURN YOUR FM RADIO TO 88.1. Since my brother’s radio had a rotary tuner, it took a couple minutes to zero in on the frequency and just when I did the huge screen in front of us lit up, started to flicker, and the first movie had begun. THE INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS was first up.
We were about a third of the way through the movie when I could feel her looking at me. I continued to stare straight ahead, ignoring her gaze, pretending to be totally absorbed in the movie. When she didn’t relent, I gave in and turned to look at her, bracing myself for her to lunge and shove her tongue down my throat. As I studied her, sitting there just smiling at me, I noticed movement outside the car behind her. I craned my head to the side a bit to look out the passenger window, and I suddenly knew what I was seeing.
The Chevy Impala that the middle age couple had driven up in was rocking back and forth from side to side. The man and woman were no where to be seen and the windows appeared heavily steamed. The car was now shifting so violently that the rear springs could be heard squeaking. Evelyn followed my stare, turning her head to look out of the passenger window, and when she did I shifted my attention 180 degrees and looked out of my window to the car where the high school kids had been. Sure enough, although the car was motionless, there was nobody to be seen and the windows were steamed.
Beads of sweat now broke out on my forehead. My head rotated back to the forward position as I pondered my next move. That’s when I saw it. The sight of all sights. The piece de resistance. Directly in front of the El Camino, approximately 20 feet from the hood of the car, back lit by Kevin McCarthy destroying an alien pod with an axe, was the grey dog mounted on top of the brown one, humping for all he was worth.
At that precise moment I felt a hand grab my thigh, and I jumped. My right arm jerked instinctively upward, driving my elbow straight into Evelyn’s nose. She didn’t make a noise, but I knew that it had to hurt. I turned on the overhead lights to see blood pouring from her nose. She was searching unsuccessfully for something to stave the flow. I knew my brother kept old t-shirts behind the seat for rags, so I reached back and grabbed one, handing it to her. When the bleeding didn’t seem to be slowing after a few minutes, I pulled out of our slot and headed home.
Evelyn’s nose was fine after our mom’s applied a cold compress. Although the family liked to bring up that night often, the two of us really never talked about it alone. She and her mom returned home at the end of the week and our relationship slowly boiled down to exchanging cards at Christmas.
Cute story, huh? You know what the really funny part is? Remember the T-shirt I gave Evelyn? The day after our disastrous date I was putting it in the laundry when I looked at it closer. It was a Rolling Stones shirt depicting the cover of one of their classic albums.
Anybody remember what the cover of Sticky Fingers looks like?
The girl in this date, Evelyn, was a long time family friend who wanted to be more than that. When we were in our early teens and lived in Silver Springs Maryland, she had the biggest crush on me (ask anyone). I never really “clicked” with her though. Maybe it was because I had known her for so long and she felt more like family than anything else to me. Whatever the reason, I was relieved when my family transferred away and we didn’t see each other for years.
During July of 1976, I was at home on break from my sophomore year at LSU. Evelyn was 20 and living in North Carolina, but she and her mother were visiting my family in New Orleans for a week. Right away I could tell she was ready to pick up where she left off, wanting to take the friendship to “the next level”. I still wasn’t too keen on the idea. I hemmed and hawed as long as could before being pressured into a taking her on a date by the two mothers. I know that wherever my mom is right now, she is still snickering over that one.
Trying to make the date as innocent as possible, I selected Joe’s Crab Shack for dinner. It was very popular and busy, which meant the romance quotient would be low (no quiet candle lit dinners). Afterwards we would see a light comedy (heavy drama, sci-fi or horror tend to make dates clench onto you) at the local cineplex. I was feeling pretty confident. I was sure I could get through the date without allowing Evelyn the slightest possibility for physical interaction. That is until I learned that she discovered we had a drive-in theater just a few miles from where we lived. And it showed classic double features every Friday night, which she LOVED. I reluctantly agreed to the change in plans, my apprehension now twisting knots in my stomach that an eagle scout could be proud of.
The movies on tap for the coming Friday? Night of the Living Dead and The Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Gulp.
The night started off well. The restaurant was crowded and our small talk had to be yelled across the table. I didn’t say much. I kept stuffing crab legs into my mouth so I wouldn’t have to.
My mood started to sour as we made our way from the diner to the drive-in, whereas Evelyn’s mood seemed to improve. We had arrived a little early, so we were able to pull my brother’s El Camino into an open slot on the front row. The borrowing of my brother’s car was another strategic move on my part. I wasn’t going to take my Chevy van, with all the possibilities that could offer. I told (fibbed) Evelyn that I was having problems with my alternator. She seemed disappointed.
The drive-in was older than I was and the deterioration over the years were evident everywhere. The front of the complex, underneath the screen where a recreational park had once been, was now overgrown with shrubs. A obscure breed of grey dog was roaming near the corner of the fence, sniffing for food. At least I thought so until I saw him raise his leg and relieve himself. A smaller dog, brown I think, was weaving in and out between the cars looking for a handout. All of the posts where the audio speaker boxes were housed were badly in need of a paint job. The enormous white screen itself was in surprisingly good shape, with only a slight tear in the upper left hand corner.
Not long after we had settled in other cars pulled into the slots on either side of us. On our left was an older middle age couple who were dressed in matching sweaters, and to the right were two couples of high school age kids. I noticed all of this because I was trying to focus my attention everywhere but inside my own car.
I quickly realized that I had made a tactical error in selecting my brother’s car to bring. Even though the van would have been a disastrous choice, it had bucket seats up front. My brother’s El Camino had just a single bench seat. No sooner had I turned off the ignition, Evelyn slid over to my side of the car as if she had a magnet in her pocket and I was made of metal.
Now my anxiety level was really peaking. I truly had no desire to “swap spit” or any other bodily fluids with Evelyn, but I also didn’t know how to say no without hurting her feelings. My mind was churning furiously, trying to think of anything that might ruin the mood for her, and be a reprieve for me. I rolled down my window and started reaching for the speaker when I noticed that it was missing. In the spot where it would normally sit was a small sign that read FOR SOUND TURN YOUR FM RADIO TO 88.1. Since my brother’s radio had a rotary tuner, it took a couple minutes to zero in on the frequency and just when I did the huge screen in front of us lit up, started to flicker, and the first movie had begun. THE INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS was first up.
We were about a third of the way through the movie when I could feel her looking at me. I continued to stare straight ahead, ignoring her gaze, pretending to be totally absorbed in the movie. When she didn’t relent, I gave in and turned to look at her, bracing myself for her to lunge and shove her tongue down my throat. As I studied her, sitting there just smiling at me, I noticed movement outside the car behind her. I craned my head to the side a bit to look out the passenger window, and I suddenly knew what I was seeing.
The Chevy Impala that the middle age couple had driven up in was rocking back and forth from side to side. The man and woman were no where to be seen and the windows appeared heavily steamed. The car was now shifting so violently that the rear springs could be heard squeaking. Evelyn followed my stare, turning her head to look out of the passenger window, and when she did I shifted my attention 180 degrees and looked out of my window to the car where the high school kids had been. Sure enough, although the car was motionless, there was nobody to be seen and the windows were steamed.
Beads of sweat now broke out on my forehead. My head rotated back to the forward position as I pondered my next move. That’s when I saw it. The sight of all sights. The piece de resistance. Directly in front of the El Camino, approximately 20 feet from the hood of the car, back lit by Kevin McCarthy destroying an alien pod with an axe, was the grey dog mounted on top of the brown one, humping for all he was worth.
At that precise moment I felt a hand grab my thigh, and I jumped. My right arm jerked instinctively upward, driving my elbow straight into Evelyn’s nose. She didn’t make a noise, but I knew that it had to hurt. I turned on the overhead lights to see blood pouring from her nose. She was searching unsuccessfully for something to stave the flow. I knew my brother kept old t-shirts behind the seat for rags, so I reached back and grabbed one, handing it to her. When the bleeding didn’t seem to be slowing after a few minutes, I pulled out of our slot and headed home.
Evelyn’s nose was fine after our mom’s applied a cold compress. Although the family liked to bring up that night often, the two of us really never talked about it alone. She and her mom returned home at the end of the week and our relationship slowly boiled down to exchanging cards at Christmas.
Cute story, huh? You know what the really funny part is? Remember the T-shirt I gave Evelyn? The day after our disastrous date I was putting it in the laundry when I looked at it closer. It was a Rolling Stones shirt depicting the cover of one of their classic albums.
Anybody remember what the cover of Sticky Fingers looks like?
Stuck
It's been almost a week since the last time I've worked on my book. I've tweaked my short story a bit, toyed around with a couple idea's for new short stories, and posted several segments here on the blog. But nothing on the book. I've had days where I've written three chapters in a twelve hour period, and there are weeks like this one where I won't write a single word. When I'm not writing on my book for an extended time, there is usually a good reason.
The explanation is simple. I'm stuck. No, it's not writers block, at least not in the way I always thought writers block referred to. I'm at a scene in the book that is really crucial and I'm unsure of how I want to write it. I'm not really worried though, I've been stuck before. For me, there are two things that grind my writing to a halt. One is that I'm unclear how to best stage the chapter to bring out all of the elements I need to, and the other is that I'm scared to write a scene.
Scared may be too strong a word. Maybe something more like apprehensive. Anxious. Nervous. Spinchter tightener. They all fit. There have been chapters that, as I approached them, I knew would really challenge my writing abilities. But the material was a necessary part of the story, and had to be included. But I was afraid the quality of my writing wouldn't rise to the level I had envisioned for the chapter. I'm usually proud of myself when I finally complete those sections, knowing that I grew as a writer during that time. But I know there are more chapters like those in my future, and I'm not looking forward to them. Just like I never look forward to going to the healthclub every other day to see if I can run farther or faster, lift more weight for more repititions. In either case, I'll be better off for it though.
I've almost worked out all of the details for the chapter I'm stalled on and I'll be back to work on the book soon. I'm crossing my fingers in the hope that the remaining five or six chapters flow uninterrupted. That way I can get onto the process of editing.
Where I might end up cutting away a scene I struggled with in the first place. Ugh!!
The explanation is simple. I'm stuck. No, it's not writers block, at least not in the way I always thought writers block referred to. I'm at a scene in the book that is really crucial and I'm unsure of how I want to write it. I'm not really worried though, I've been stuck before. For me, there are two things that grind my writing to a halt. One is that I'm unclear how to best stage the chapter to bring out all of the elements I need to, and the other is that I'm scared to write a scene.
Scared may be too strong a word. Maybe something more like apprehensive. Anxious. Nervous. Spinchter tightener. They all fit. There have been chapters that, as I approached them, I knew would really challenge my writing abilities. But the material was a necessary part of the story, and had to be included. But I was afraid the quality of my writing wouldn't rise to the level I had envisioned for the chapter. I'm usually proud of myself when I finally complete those sections, knowing that I grew as a writer during that time. But I know there are more chapters like those in my future, and I'm not looking forward to them. Just like I never look forward to going to the healthclub every other day to see if I can run farther or faster, lift more weight for more repititions. In either case, I'll be better off for it though.
I've almost worked out all of the details for the chapter I'm stalled on and I'll be back to work on the book soon. I'm crossing my fingers in the hope that the remaining five or six chapters flow uninterrupted. That way I can get onto the process of editing.
Where I might end up cutting away a scene I struggled with in the first place. Ugh!!
Confidence
Self-confidence isn't something I usually struggle with. I don't mean that to sound conceited, but in both my personal or professional life, I make sure I know what I'm talking about, backwards and forwards, before I open my mouth. I have a firm grasp of what my capabilities are (and aren't) and a belief that they will help me succeed with whatever I'm doing.
But when it comes to my writing, it's a whole other story.
There are days that I feel my vocabulary consists of a dozen words, and I keep using them over and over again. See that. I just used over twice. I'll write a scene in my novel one day, and when I read back over it later I gag on how bad it is. Then there are times when I write something that I consider fairly pedestrian, and when somebody else reads it they can't stop praising it. I am my own worst critic sometimes.
Stringing together a 100K words doesn't make a novel (although I've read some books from authors who might take issue with that statement). If we go out on a limb and stipulate that it does constitute a novel, that doesn't mean its necessarily commercial. Can it sell books? How many? What number of books does it need to sell before you consider it a success? Even if you're confident it will be a success, can you convince an agent of that fact? If there is an agent out there looking for just the type of book you've just finished, will you work hard enough (or be lucky enough) to get your manuscript in front of him/her at just the right time. Will she have PMS that week? Will he be suffering from a case of Hemorrhoids? Are all of the stars aligned properly?
I am not kidding myself here. I am well aware the chances that either of my novels find their way into traditional print (self-publishing will always be an option) are astronomical. But there are things that I am confident in . . .
* I am confident that my exploration into creative writing is a good thing.
* I am confident that my stories are entertaining.
* I am confident that the people who support me and nudge me along, do so because they believe in the work, not just in me.
* I am confident that failure to be successful won't be because of a lack of effort on my part.
and lastly,
* I am confident that I can expand my vocabulary to at least 13 words.
But when it comes to my writing, it's a whole other story.
There are days that I feel my vocabulary consists of a dozen words, and I keep using them over and over again. See that. I just used over twice. I'll write a scene in my novel one day, and when I read back over it later I gag on how bad it is. Then there are times when I write something that I consider fairly pedestrian, and when somebody else reads it they can't stop praising it. I am my own worst critic sometimes.
Stringing together a 100K words doesn't make a novel (although I've read some books from authors who might take issue with that statement). If we go out on a limb and stipulate that it does constitute a novel, that doesn't mean its necessarily commercial. Can it sell books? How many? What number of books does it need to sell before you consider it a success? Even if you're confident it will be a success, can you convince an agent of that fact? If there is an agent out there looking for just the type of book you've just finished, will you work hard enough (or be lucky enough) to get your manuscript in front of him/her at just the right time. Will she have PMS that week? Will he be suffering from a case of Hemorrhoids? Are all of the stars aligned properly?
I am not kidding myself here. I am well aware the chances that either of my novels find their way into traditional print (self-publishing will always be an option) are astronomical. But there are things that I am confident in . . .
* I am confident that my exploration into creative writing is a good thing.
* I am confident that my stories are entertaining.
* I am confident that the people who support me and nudge me along, do so because they believe in the work, not just in me.
* I am confident that failure to be successful won't be because of a lack of effort on my part.
and lastly,
* I am confident that I can expand my vocabulary to at least 13 words.
