Wheeze. Ouch.

I just got home from the doctor and the pharmacy. I’ve got two a one-two punch of illness, and I’m really not thrilled about that. There are too many things on my docket.

  • Continue the job hunt for social media, content management/creation, and writing, positions
  • Keep working on the fiction projects
    • 19 Puffs of Smoke
    • Half-Man Hunting (new, waiting to see if it evolves into a full manuscript)
    • Super Love! (which I’ve let go fallow for a bit)
    • Blood Soaked #4, Blood Soaked and Unleashed

Beyond that, there’s not terribly much to update you on. I would like it if you continued to spread the good word about my zombie books that are already on the market. The best marketing in the world for authors is still recommendations from friends.

Speaking of which, if you have not read Sean Smith’s “Objects of Wrath,” Paul Mannering’s “Tank Bread” series, and Mike Clary’s “Guardian” series… let me tell you, you’re missing out on some of the best small press fiction out there.


Fear, loss, and powerlessness

I found out today that one of my dearest friends (from my teen years until now) is in the hospital. The prognosis is not good.

The fear of loss looms, and I feel powerless. I am powerless.

There are things I knew, and things I didn’t know. None of them are anything I can stop, or could have stopped, had I known how bad things had become.

This space is the powerlessness of impending loss, and the anticipation of a hole appearing in my heart. How will I contain this when I go to the hospital tomorrow? Will I even manage to appear…normal?

She was, is, an artist. She spurred me on in my work when I turned to art, even if our expression of it couldn’t have been more different. We encouraged one another.

Because I am outside her life, I see the ripples she made in the lives of others, good and bad. I feel those waves inside me, and I hope they will never fade. I pray they won’t.

I pray that she won’t fade. I am not a prayerful man.

While I write fiction, I use this blog to comment on life, more than about what I write. You see, what I write is who I am. Messages you find in my books are messages from me. The characters are not me, but they reflect facets of me.

Now I am telling you a story of personal fear, the inexorability of loss—save for some unexpected miracle—and the heart-distorting power of powerlessness. Ultimately, it is also a story of love, because I will never stop loving her, no matter how things play out from this moment forward.

What I will tell you now is what I have learned. Repair rifts. Love. Forgive. Cherish. Heal. Rejoice. We never know the moment of parting.