Month: October 2015

Friday Freewrite

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What’s Friday Freewrite? Find out here.

Redemption. Salvation. I have begun to write once more1. I’ve emerged from a fitful slumber filled with terrors and anxieties to find the light once more.

I’m reoriented. Recalibrated. The old ways have returned. The folly of my former ways is but a bad dream, a hazy recollection that might never have happened at all.

A bad dream. Then poof. Gone. I have discovered myself once more, amid a hall of mirrors and vain self images, an endless array of mirrors and empty reflections of reflections.

I’ve found the true self, huddled in the dark, despairing of rescue. I’ve saved him for myself. I now hold him close to my bosom, my love, my life, my reason for being. With him I will once more accomplish great things.

Ideas. Tumbling. Spinning. A tempestuous gale of conflicting senses and values and ideas, rocking the foundation, battering the flimsy support beams, already rotting and corroding from the inside out.

The storm intensifies. I huddle beneath a failing foundation, trembling, despairing of the house of convenience and comfort and assumptions that I’ve built up around me. I hear the beams creaking, groaning, sounding their death cries. It won’t be long now.

Collapse. I lose everything. All I had once held as self-evident truths has crumpled to ash2 before my tear-stained eyes.

I gaze about, lost and broken. The storm has lifted, and after a dazed numb silence I begin to pick up the pieces.

I work feverishly, building for myself a foundation that combines the new with the old, though I know there will be another storm, for such folly is my life eternal.


1. As you probably guessed, this came at a time when I hadn’t written for a long time. I was so excited when the words started flowing again that I had to capture my feelings on paper so that I could remember them later.

2. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever find the truth.

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Ex Nihilo, Introduction

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Out of the unformed ether of the mind erupt peoples, nations, entire worlds of every kind. By unleashing the raw power of creation, we storytellers breath form and life into entire universes ex nihilo. It’s an extraordinary power, but like most practitioners of magic, we prefer to work in seclusion. We barricade ourselves in our ivory towers, huddled over parchments and keyboards in the dark, not because we’re arrogant or because, like magicians, we believe in closely guarded secrets.

Rather, we hide the details of our work because we’re scared.

We’re scared that if we let you in, you’ll discover the awful truth, that the handful of gems we’ve managed to produce after weeks or months or years is invariably preceded by decomposing mountains of dross, the inarticulate by-products of a creative process that reveals our numerous inadequacies in all their shameful glory.

We jealously guard these imperfect scraps and never allow them to see the light of day. We believe only in presenting our most polished work; we’re certain that to do otherwise would be intellectual suicide.

But today, I want to throw the doors open. You’ll notice I’ve already done a little of this in my Friday Freewrite series. I’ve come to realize that perfection is a foolhardy illusion, that if only I swallow my pride and allow others to encounter my flawed and imprecise methods, I can share a much more authentic, much more human story.

To that end, I’ve decided to post my next blog not in its complete and perfected form, but as a weekly four-part series of intermediate steps.

Below are links to each installment in the series:

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Friday Freewrite


Image licensed by Shutterstock.

What’s Friday Freewrite? Find out here.

Bound by rules I don’t entirely believe1, I wander through the desert in search of answers, a pursuit that surely has no resolution, no termination except in death. Loneliness is my companion. Uncertainty my consolation. I observe the lives of the others, the carefree jubilation of the ordinary things that are a part of everyday life, and I stand outside on the periphery, too turned away from the ways of the world to participate, too doubtful of my order’s doctrine to remain with them. I wander the vast yet narrow no-man’s land of the intersection between, broken, lost and alone.

It seems to me that all of this must mean something2. Surely, this is more than just random chance. I feel so lost, adrift in a dark sea of uncertainty, ruderless3 and without a paddle.

This all feels so superficial, so empty, like a cheap plastic coating. Does this plastic coating hide behind it mysteries worth exploring, or is the plastic all there is, all there ever was?

Sometimes, I feel that if I only squint hard enough, if I only focus a little further, a little deeper than usual, I might glimpse something from between the cracks. Perhaps the thin plastic of ordinary life contains cracks. Perhaps it’s worn and frayed and peeling at the edges. If I only focus had enough, just maybe I’ll see something. If I do, I hope it will be something worth seeing.

I wander through the desert, traverse sprawling dunes, trudge through blinding choking storms of sand, searching through perpetual night, searching for a light, a beacon, some guidepost to light my way and help me find my way home.

Truth eludes me, taunts me from a distance, promising I can find it if only I search dilligently4 enough. Yet it hides from me, flees whenever I feel it might be coming close.

“Just a little closer,” it mocks. “You almost had me.” Then it’s gone.

I’ve wandered through the dark for so long that I fear I’ve gone blind. In the absence of light, I ask myself if I will ever see again, and I find I have no answer.


1. I wrote this psuedo-fictional account of a man on the outside at a time when I was experiencing a lot of doubt about the things I myself believe. I still have those same doubts, and don’t see myself resolving them anytime soon, but I’m doing my best to live my life in spite of them.

2. I firmly believe this, but sometimes my faith is tested.

3. Should be spelled rudderless.

4. Should be spelled diligently.

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