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I remembered a conversation I had with a younger coworker a few years ago. At some point, the opportunity to use the well-tread phrase “ancient Chinese secret” reared its ugly head. Naturally I jumped on it.

He didn’t know what I was talking about.

With a silent thunderclap, I suddenly felt… old. I figure, if you have to explain a tagline to someone, and you think you shouldn’t have to, then you are old. That’s precisely what had just happened to me.

That led me to thinking about generations. I don’t necessarily mean the rigid, unbreakable definitions of Baby Boomers, Generation X, and Millennials. What I picture is more organic, like rolling generations.

What people claim as their own, culturally speaking, seem to center around the ages of 18-25. That’s when people are arguably coming of age. That’s the period of time they are going to look back on most fondly(in most cases.)

Because of that, it’s possible that people born in 1949 see Woodstock as the pinnacle of music history, while other born in say 1964 may see the eighties as a major, transformative time in music. The point? Both sets of people are considered Baby Boomers. One generation.

These things seemed to come in waves for many decades. We seemed to have clearly defined pop-culture and musical periods of time from the fifties through the nineties. Each decade had its own set of defenders who just happened to largely fit into that 18-25 demographic during that period of time.

What’s interesting, but not all that surprising, is that as these people grow older, the love for those years grows. Eventually that period of time becomes a golden era of cultural progress. Anyone who doesn’t agree just doesn’t get it.

The other stereotype is, of course, that “kids these days” don’t know what good music sounds like. The music today is uninspired. Movies today are just ghostly echoes of the great movies of the past. Television is a mess.

I don’t necessarily see this as a sign of stubbornness. These are people feeling the pressure of time. They are worried that the small window of history that was “theirs” is quickly being forgotten.

So I don’t think old people are being curmudgeonly, I think they are scared of being left behind.

Recent developments in history are only serving to muddy the waters. As I’ve shown, delineating specific periods of time as being one generation doesn’t work very well. Using decades as a marker has also been pretty-well blown out of the water.

The 2000’s, while an amazing milestone, was also a major game-changer. Now, I know I’m getting old, but I find I can’t look back to the 2000’s and say “Oh, yeah! These songs and movies made the 2000’s!” In fact, there’s a good chance at least one or two of the songs or movies I came up with would turn out to be from the 2010’s.

There seems to be some weird “millennium effect” that’s muddied the waters somehow. We had the orderly progression of the 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s. Now the 2000’s has somehow broken the system, and the second decade of this millennium seems to just be blurring into the first. At least to me, it is.

Another game changer came into its own in the late nineties, just in time to enhance the millennium effect:  the internet.

Granted, the world wide web as we know it had been around since the early nineties. It wasn’t until the end of that decade that it began to truly revolutionize how we consume media. The idea of music-sharing was born in Napster all the way back in 1999.

For the first time, people were able to easily share individual songs. A simple thing, but a revolutionary one. Instead of investing in whole albums, people could cherry pick singles that they enjoyed. That meant they could have songs from multiple decades all together in one playlist.

The birth of social platforms like Myspace and Facebook further promoted this concept and grew it to include movies and television shows. Those people coming of age could now simultaneously have an affection for Eminem and The Golden Girls. The very concept of generations is getting washed out in today’s wired world.

Nobody can even decide what this generation, or generations, should be called. Millennials are supposed to cover everyone born from 1982 to present, though I’ve heard the cut-off pushed earlier than 1982. That makes me a Millennial to some, a Gen Xer to others(I think Gen Xer sounds way cooler, personally.)

Also in the mix is Generation Y, sandwiched between X and Millennial, and believed to be derogatory by some. There are those that consider Generation Y and Millennials to be one in the same. Still others say there’s a Generation Z in there somewhere after the Y people. Or something.

Despite the muddling confusion, there is a surprising bright spot in all of this. Parents and children are connecting more than ever. Even Grandparents and their grandchildren are finding common ground.

A teenager enters a “phase” of digging music from the sixties. Well, guess who was around to appreciate that period in person? Yup, Grandpa.  Who better to help develop your 60’s playlist then the man that heard it blasting out of his stereo speakers for the first time so many years ago?

At the same time, parents can easily reminisce about the music and movies they grew up with thanks to Netflix, YouTube, and music services like Amazon Prime and Apple Music. It also makes it easier to share those things with their children. In turn, those children create memes that unwittingly bring two generations into one.

I think we are quickly coming to a period in human history where generations will be a thing of the past. I’m not so sure that’s a bad thing. If variety is the spice of life, then we are living in savory times.

Togetherness is increasingly important in a world that appears to grow darker and more pessimistic with each passing year. The internet, for all of its quirks and pitfalls, is helping people connect; people that would have never had anything to say to each other. People that used to think their generation was best.

You know what? Come to think of it, I think I know what this generation should be called.

Generation Us.

I was introduced to the world of Fallout with Fallout 3. A guy I worked with suggested both it and Fallout New Vegas to me. We were working together that day, and he expounded on all the crazy things you could do in the games for well over an hour.

I started off by getting Fallout 3. I was immediately impressed by the immersive quality of the game. You were given a main storyline to follow, but were given full license to wander across the burnt earth and twisted steel of the Capital Wasteland.

This spoke to me immensely. I was coming off of the whimsical world of the Nintendo 64. My favorite games were Super Mario 64, Conker’s Bad Fur Day, and the Banjo Kazooie games.

What endeared them to me the most, as a casual gamer, was the wide-open feel they had. A straightforward path to follow? Nah. You have this much time to complete it? Nope! In fact, some of the most rewarding experiences in the games were had by purposefully wandering off the beaten path.

Fallout 3 was like Banjo Kazooie all grown up… and irradiated, I guess. Instead of learning new moves, you leveled up your character. Instead of finding a secret path to a hidden jiggy, you found an abandoned vault full of old-world goodies.

Another mechanic that endeared me to the series was the ability to mold the story as it progressed. I was also a fan of Final Fantasy VII and VIII. These are the only two Final Fantasy games that exist, as far as I’m concerned, by the way. Part of the fun was being able to influence events in the game with dialogue choices.

Fallout 3 took that shit and ran with it. Just like with the Force, you could follow the light or turn to the dark side. Certain possible companions could only be hired if you were an asshole. How you handled Megaton at the beginning of the game would determine if you were pursued by an elite gang of thugs or a posse of wasteland cowboy justice bringers throughout the rest of the story.

I absolutely loved these elements, but there was a definite lean towards gunfights and sneaking… and subways. There were lots and lots of subways. Like, SO MUCH SUBWAYS, you guys.

While I was playing though, I was checking out details on Fallout New Vegas. The more I read, the more I liked. Here was Fallout 3, but somehow bigger and better. I abandoned the Lone Wanderer for the time-being and got acquainted with the Courier.

It was the best damn decision I ever made in my life.

People say they play video games as a hobby, I play Fallout New Vegas as a hobby. I have nearly 130 hours logged on it as of this writing, and I only get like an hour or two to play it in a week. What I’m saying is, I kind of like this game.

It took everything I liked about Fallout 3 and turned the knob to the right. It literally drops you into a small town in the middle of the desert and says go anywhere. Well, just not straight to New Vegas(hello, blind deathclaw!)

From the very beginning, you start molding your own character. He or she can be made to look like you, or any which way you want. You take various “tests” to determine your base stats and demeanor. This all happens before you leave the home of the doctor that saved your life.

Once out in the world, you’re encouraged to follow the tutorial-like first quests to learn the basics, but after that the world is your oyster. It’s like Banjo Kazooie on Forced Evolutionary Virus. Go anywhere you want in this big old map, full of things to discover only tangentially related to the main storyline.

Some people complain about the vast tracts of nothing between locations in the Mojave, but I think it adds to the realness of the world. The layout of locations also does a good job of guiding the player along the main quest line while gently nudging them off the trail to explore.

Another considerable improvement was in the ways you can influence the story and the outcome of not only the main quests, but several smaller quests as well. Black and white decisions have been replaced with ones tinged in shades of gray. Sometimes there simply isn’t a “best” option, and this is a beautiful thing, to me.

All of your choices culminate in an epic slide show at the end of the game. The fates of all the places and people you’ve touched throughout the game are revealed for better or worse. My desire to give them better fates has pushed me to play through more than once.

Fallout New Vegas also, hands down, has the best DLC content I’ve ever seen. You have four new story lines that feed directly off the main game, but stand alone as their own tales. Just like the main game, your decisions greatly influence your outcome as well as the outcome for characters and places in the DLC.

Chief among these four is Old World Blues, which gives a fascinating window into the links between the past and the future. A close second is Lonesome Road, which serves to tie together the three previous DLCs. This story shows the connection between the hubris that brought human civilization to its knees, and how those same machinations may see it brought to the grave.

So it was with much excitement and impatience that I looked forward to the release of Fallout 4. I paid extra to get the premium Pip-Boy-including edition. I didn’t even have an Xbox One yet, and wouldn’t for months afterward.

While I was waiting to play I heard some… things. The Sole Survivor had his own voice. The marketing really pushed his specific appearance as well. He also did the “War never changes” speech(BLASPHEMY!) These things really make it hard to make that character yours. They also made John Cleese record like, five thousand names so Cogsworth could say your name, so there was that.

Alas, it was much worse than I had imagined. Even painting my face over that of the Sole Survivor did not make the character my own. It was me with some dude’s voice talking to other characters.

Then you had the dialogue options. While you could still make decisions that influenced the path of the game, you could be a saint or… sarcastic? One of the funnest things about New Vegas was being able to be a psychotic asshole if you wanted, and the game would tailor itself to your whims.

The only way to be evil in Fallout 4 is to kill people. No epic dialogue demeaning them beforehand, just kill them. And the game acts to discourage this behavior.

Also discouraged is playing the field, actions-wise. In New Vegas, you can move through most of each faction’s quests without being vilified by the other factions. Doing the same in Fallout 4 would require multiple play-throughs.

This game also goes back to Fallout 3‘s habit of heavy gun play. Diplomacy and skill are largely ignored in favor of weapon mods and constant battle. That’s great if you love Call of Duty, but… I don’t love most FPS in general.

The one saving grace are the graphics. The world in this game is GORGEOUS. There are still numerous places to explore, and they do reveal some world-building and player-growing tidbits. But the fact that this has been the most enjoyable part of the game for me so far should be a big red flag.

In fact, after starting the game twice, I’ve gone back to do one more extra-thorough play through of New Vegas. After that? I actually might go back and finally play through all of Fallout 3. I just can’t face Fallout 4 quite yet.

Like Obi Wan to Anakin, I say to Fallout 4, “You were the chosen one!” After learning the lessons from the previous two titles, this game should have been absolutely amazing. To an extent it is, but for a Fallout fanatic like me, it’s a dull whisper of what it should have been.

I’ll still hope for the future, but for now, you can find me in the Mojave.

 

 

 

 

The past fifteen months have been interesting for me.

I’ve undergone a bit of a transformation, though beautiful butterfly I am not. I have become more aware of who I am. Perhaps I’m a little more assertive than I once was. I’ve certainly become more prone to reminiscing about my younger years, though I’ve weathered a number of repressed memories as well.

Amongst all this, something curious began to happen.

A constant throughout my life has been daydreaming. It’s partly how I dealt with upsetting situations. I’ve suffered from social anxiety (never officially diagnosed) ever since I was a child.

For whatever reason, the way schools dealt with this issue was to, well, ignore it, really. With nobody listening to my concerns and no help given in regards to how to cope, I was prone to acting out. I have precious few happy moments from my childhood. Unsurprisingly, I am alone in those few happy memories.

The one coping mechanism I came upon by myself was daydreaming. Ahead of any social interactions, I would try to imagine every possible scenario I’d be faced with, and how best to handle it. Sometimes it backfired, but more often than not I found it beneficial.

A natural offshoot of this behavior was a healthy imagination. I soon grew fond of dreaming up random characters and the adventures they would go on. I’d occasionally try to put these imaginings to paper, but finding nobody to read them, typically relegated them to the big garbage dump in the sky.

I never left behind my precious coping mechanism. I still use it to this day, though I’ve made some progress combating my social anxiety. As a result of flexing that muscle for so many years, I’ve also become really good at daydreaming.

Jump back to fifteen months ago. I was going through one of the darkest periods in my life. I was facing the real possibility of having to start my life over once again, both financially and emotionally.

Needless to say, I was doing some seriously deep thinking during this time. I frequently daydreamed not just to make it through the day, but to distract myself from my misery. It was in this daydreaming that I had a thought.

That thought was of an encounter between a young man and an old man, who was sitting on a porch. One had a plasma pistol, and the other didn’t seem to care that it was being pointed at him. That thought grew into a great story idea.

That story idea grew into After, my first novel.

Working on After became another form of therapy, a way to escape. I worked on it late into the night after everyone had gone to bed for the night. For an hour or two, everything went away and there was just Alex, me, and a journey.

It would turn out Alex and I both were on a journey of self-discovery. I found my way to, if not the light, a brighter place in my own life. Meanwhile, I continued to forge a meaningful life for Alex.

I released After at the end of March 2017 through self-publication. I had no great hopes for it. The novel was my first published work and I had zero social media presence.

I swallowed (some of) my social anxiety and forged a Twitter account to go along with my new website(another love of mine.) I did my best to start garnering interest for both the website and my new novel. I also paid for some pell-mell advertising and crossed my fingers.

Imagine my surprise when I almost immediately had people reading my book on Kindle Unlimited, and even buying copies of the eBook edition. I even had some sales of the physical edition. Could I be on to something?

Spurred on by my accidental success, I worked up another idea I had about a detective murder mystery set in the future. Spurred on by the (relatively) astounding success I had with my first novel, I began my work by mid April of 2017. That idea would of course grow into my second novel, Preservation Protocol.

Skip to November. This was a big deal for me. Here I was, a brand-new author, poised to release my second novel in less than a year. Preservation Protocol was longer, more detailed, and showed real growth for me as an author(at least to me.) I even had a pre-order on it for the eBook edition a few weeks ahead of its official release.

Then something curious happened. I only had two pre-orders, and I was one of them. The day of release, I sold three copies. Fast-forward to the present: January 2018.

I haven’t sold any more copies.

I’ve thrown far more money at advertising the book than is reasonable. I’ve moaned and groaned about it on Twitter to the point of annoyance, I’m sure. Still, no takers.

It’s as if Preservation Protocol is in some weird black spot in everyone’s consciousness. I’ve actually seen a recent surge in interest for After again, but no follow-up purchases of my latest novel. Anyone who has said anything about After has been largely positive.

What people have said about Preservation Protocol has also been positive, for that matter.

Needless to say, I’ve not taken the wholesale rejection of my latest offering very well. I started writing my third novel, Something Deeper, shortly after releasing Preservation Protocol. I’ve struggled to find the same fire I had in my soul for the first two novels.

I’ve fought to convince myself that I’m a good writer, or even a passable writer. I’ve walked down the dark road all writers follow at least once in their lives. Maybe I should just put down my pen, maybe for good.

Maybe I should stop working on this new book. Maybe I should delete this new book. Will anyone even ever read this new book? Is it even worth punishing myself late at night by continuing to work on it?

Yes. It is.

I’m not sure what changed between my first release and my second, but what I know hasn’t changed is my passion for writing. Despite all the negative thoughts I’ve had, I’ve never stopped enjoying the process of creating and exploring new worlds. I’ve struggled, but I still want… need… to see what happens to Simon Travers in Something Deeper.

So I will continue to write. I will continue to release novels, even if only a handful of people ever enjoy reading them. I’ve decided it doesn’t matter, because I enjoy writing them.

Just over six hundred people read After last year. That’s nothing over a nine-month period, but it’s everything to me. I will hold that in my heart going forward.

I may never grow rich or have thousands of fans, but I will have fun. I’ve discovered a trick so few manage to pull off in this world. I can create whole worlds.

I can see untold tales from lands far away and people long gone. I feel the emotions of people not yet born, in realms yet to be discovered. I hold the darkest secrets of the most holy.

I am their seer, their scribe, their friend. I accept my duty to commit to paper their stories. I will sing their songs and preserve their names.

And I will always find joy in it all.

Yeah, I’m going there.

I will start off by saying that I enjoy the Star Wars movies. I was introduced to them as far back as three years old. My earliest memory involves me picking out a Darth Vader light saber and insisting that the red one was the good guy’s sword.

That said, the Star Wars saga is a twisted, convoluted mess of a series. There was no clear plan for the very first movie, let alone for a nine-movie-long saga. Quite frankly, George Lucas didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

Lest anyone forget, Lucas’ first movie, THX 1138 was not a success by any measure.  It could be argued that the only reason American Graffiti turned out as well as it did was due to it largely being based on Lucas’ own life. Star Wars was similarly based on a love of Lucas’.

No, I’m not saying that George Lucas is an alien. Everyone knows that, anyway. As many people know now, Star Wars was a love letter to the old Flash Gordon serials of Lucas’ youth. When he couldn’t obtain the rights to Flash Gordon, he basically set out to make a rip-off of it.

Writing the original Star Wars was a giant mess in and of itself. Looking back over the Wikipedia article about the writing process, Lucas didn’t seem to know what to do beyond write something science-fictiony. Looking over it as a whole, Lucas was relatively clueless as to what he was doing.

It would take him three years and uncountable rewrites and reimaginings before he finally put down the script… just as they started filming the movie. Lucas has admitted he was heavily influenced by numerous different sci-fi adventures he had seen and read. Star Wars was a lasagna whose different layers were built upon other writers’ works.

It kinda worked out okay though, in the end. Star Wars was a huge hit, and it is a good movie, but I think a large part of that is owed to luck. The movie is a veritable hodgepodge of other movies and books mixed together with a heaping helping of classical adventure archetypes added in for spice. That said, it would seem that Lucas had found his footing in Star Wars.

Except he had not. Lucas didn’t even write the base script for The Empire Strikes Back, though he would ultimately polish it into the story we saw on the big screen. It also wasn’t until this point that the trilogy… well… became a trilogy. It’s also the point that Darth Vader became Luke Skywalker’s daddy.

Darth Vader had not been destined to be Luke’s father when the first film was made. This introduced the first of many contradictions in the continuity of the series. It’s also the main crux of my argument, here.

From the beginning, Star Wars has always been a crapshoot. The first movie was supposed to be another movie entirely. The second movie morphed the series into a trilogy. The third movie, as far as I know, was supposed to end the trilogy.

Also, as far as I know, there was no grand plan of doing three prequels to the original trilogy. Insert your “Spaceballs: The Search for More Money” joke here. It should be said that Lucas claims he always wanted to do the prequel trilogy, however.

Whatever the truth is, the prequel movies were made, and the nerds rejoiced. Again, I enjoyed all three movies, though many swear they were terrible. Both sides are right.

The prequel trilogy showed a level of writing not seen in the first three movies. The plots and storylines were much more polished and coherent. It was evident that careful thought and planning had gone into the over-arching story that bound not only the three movies, but the prequel trilogy to the original triology.

My main beef with the prequels is twofold. Firstly, while the writing is cohesive, it is also emotionally flat. George Lucas has come a long way in his writing, but handles emotion with all the grace and nuance of a mentally deficient refrigerator.

The other major problem with the prequels was that the story they had to tell was set in stone, and had to be spread out across three movies. This problem can be seen the most in the first movie, which feels like it could be simplified to “pod racing and baffling good luck.” While The Phantom Menace does a good job of setting up the rest of the trilogy, it meanders relentlessly on its way there.

That brings us to the sequel trilogy. I can honestly understand at this point why George Lucas didn’t have much interest in doing the “final” trilogy. These movies, thus far, epitomize everything that’s wrong with Hollywood today.

There is no clear outline for this trilogy. It is literally being hammered out as they go along. The first movie was a total and complete send-up of the original Star Wars film. Kylo Ren is Darth Vader, rebels are trying to bring down the establishment, Starkiller Base is the Death Star, a lot of time is spent on a desert planet, etc.

The Last Jedi, if anything, seems to be an even more confused mess. It feels more like a generic sci-fi action/adventure movie than ever before. Without getting too deep into the plot of the film, it epitomizes the idea of delivering over-the-top moments versus building plot and character.

Speaking of character, Luke Skywalker comes off as more of a convenient plot device then the continuing arc of a beloved character. Leia Organa similarly seems to be there simply for the character recognition and as a place-holder. Her big “force” moment in the film feels like tacked-on lip service for the nerds in the audience.

At this point, I don’t know if there will be a truly satisfying end to this third trilogy. Disney seems more interested in delivering over-the-top cinematic moments than developing a mythos. Bottom line: Disney gonna Disney. And if their past is any indication, the third movie in the trilogy will not be the last.

Sure enough, there’s already been an indication that the original main movie line will continue, though not necessarily continuing with the Skywalker clan. These movies will undoubtedly continue to make way more money than they have any right to. These movies will continue to spawn more movies and spin-offs, and I’ll probably watch them all.

I truly am a fan of the Star Wars universe. I truly enjoy watching the movies. I’m simply disappointed that, after all these years and all these movies, the powers that be still can’t get their shit together and create a cohesive universe.  Flying by the seat of one’s pants might have worked out for Han Solo, but that doesn’t mean it will continue to work for Disney.

The Star Wars films are great popcorn movies, but they can be so. Much. MORE. Disney has the power and the talent to weave a storyline to rival that of the Marvel movies. The only real question now is, why aren’t they doing it?

 

 

 

It’s Christmastime. You know, Santa spoils your kids, you drink some eggnog, you put up with your relatives(again,) stuff like that. Everyone enjoys their extra day off, goes to work hungover, and waits a week to do it all over again, minus the presents.

It’s not that simple though, is it? I mean, it’s not for me. Humans like to paint with a broad brush. The truth of the matter is that everyone celebrates the holidays in their own way. Furthermore, not everyone feels the same way about the holidays.

I’m not just talking about people that celebrate Hanukkah or Kwanzaa, either. Some people have elaborate traditions that must be honored and adhered to. Others go through the motions, smiling around the growing ball of stress in their stomachs. Then of course you have the people that just want to blink and have it be over with.

It’s a fascinating look into the psyches of people. Christmas is unique in that respect. Few other measures cover so many aspects of the human mind with a single stimulus: Christmastime.

Now obviously most people first experience Christmas as children. This is one of the earliest opportunities parents get to pass down generational traditions and beliefs. For children, it’s their earliest exposure to the idea of such concepts.

My earliest memories only involve the jolly fat man bringing me presents on Christmas morning. We had to watch the Peanuts Christmas special, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, and How the Grinch Stole Christmas. That was it, in the beginning.

There was no baby Jesus. There was no midnight mass or We Three Kings. My parents weren’t religious at all. I still recall with a smile a moment from later in my life that sums it all up quite well.

We went through a period of going to church and some of us, well, grasped it better than others. I said to my father in passing that we were Christians, and he replied “No! Don’t tell people that! We’re not Christians, we’re Catholic!”

Religion was not really our thing, is what I’m saying.

That moment came after my father remarried following my mother’s passing. My step mother was absolutely religious. She even had one of those cool/creepy Jesus figurines ripping its chest open to point at its little Jesus heart.

Now understand I totally fucking hated going to church. It was Catholic church on top of it, so even worse than normal church. Christmas was different, though.

I still couldn’t wait to leave church as soon as I got there, but there was something… different… about midnight mass. It had an altogether different feel to it than normal mass. It felt peaceful, almost magical, dare I say sacred.

At the time, I didn’t really understand it. I think I was between nine and twelve when we went to midnight mass. Looking back, I think it was the specialness of it.

It was night versus day. I was up instead of in bed. We sang old Christmas songs instead of those weird Catholic hymns. There was a charged feeling to the atmosphere, an air of quiet anticipation, all with that underlying feeling of sacredness.

While I didn’t miss my father’s second wife, I did miss that feeling when Christmas rolled around. It took a number of years to realize that it wasn’t the church I missed, or all the strict, arcane rules that surrounded it. I missed that quiet, peaceful, sacred feeling that came with Christmas eve.

Years later, I think I have a better grasp on it. We humans hit the ground running at top speed (some of us terribly hungover) at the beginning of the year. We don’t really get a chance to slow down and catch our breath until the end of the year grabs us by the face and makes us pay attention.

It’s like a good, hard slap. The year is almost over. It’s time to celebrate, though for many of us it’s just one more stress-point in a year full of stress-points. For people like me, it signals it’s time to realize that we’re nearly out of money and that life-saving tax return is so, so far away.

I actually see people getting angrier, not more cheerful, as the year draws to a close. Modern life has dictated that this be a stressful time of year. The bills pile up, we bleed money to buy gifts for everyone. Budgets get stretched to the limit. We drag our corpses out of bed before the sun rises to go to work until after the sun sets.

All during that time we are supposed to laugh, put on a happy face, and enjoy the season. Is it really such a wonder that everyone just wants it over? So few people remember the reason for the season, and no, I don’t mean baby Jesus.

For me, this time of year has become a time for reflection. It is a time to look back at who I was this year, and to make peace with it. It is a time to remember who I am, and try to find my inner peace before the race begins anew.

I think of the struggles I’ve faced this year. Somehow I’ve managed to survive the year without resorting to bankruptcy again. I’ve held together my marriage. My children haven’t devolved into bratty little hooligans.

I think of poor old Tom, my father in law that passed on two days before my birthday. I think of everything he did for me, how he transformed me. I think of how I will miss seeing his smiling face and listening to his boisterous stories.

I think of the reality that I am now a published author. I savor the reality that people actually want to read what I write. I must accept the reality that, at least for now, I will not make a living with my writing. I also must accept that, for whatever reason, nobody is interested in reading my second novel.

I revel in the fact that I ultimately don’t care, and am happily writing my third novel. I will continue to write and publish novels. I have nothing to prove, except that I will not give up.

These thoughts burn. They tighten my chest and bring tears to my eyes. These thoughts are who I am though, and I will learn to process and accept and fucking embrace them.

And as I sit here tonight in the dark, when the last of the presents are finally under the tree and a glass of scotch is in my hand, I will smile as I watch the lights twinkle.

Despite all that life has thrown at me, throughout all of the trials and tribulations, I have survived.

I sit here typing this, realizing that for the first time in a very long time, I know who I am again. I can accept my shortcomings again. And I can love myself again.

Yes, tonight I will sit here alone in the dark, soaking in the sacredness not of Christmas, but of the transition from one year to the next. The pain of the year will fade as the I prepare for the brightness of tomorrow morning. This sacred moment of silence when everything is possible, and hope can grow eternal, will envelop me once more.

May you all some day find this sacred peace. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and many happy returns.