I have almost reached the end of my trek, my year-long goal of posting something every single day of 2015. I have hopes of finding something profound to say. That’s what a wizard does, right? He provides wisdom and wit. I am not saying my magic is nearly used up. My cauldron is still boiling and full of eye of newt and gingerbread bat-wings. I can still weave a few spells from it. In fact, one of the effects of writing regularly and in a sustained manner is the priming of the pump, enabling me to more readily produce the magic liquids from the very depths of the well. If I can keep breathing and limping forward, I will write many more good things. I am not bragging here. It is just a fact. Practice empowers the sorcery. But I also need to slow down and have a break… or two… or twelve. I will not stop writing. But I will post less because I will be putting more of my words into my fiction. I have several unfinished novels to move forward, to shape, to mold, to breathe life into. There is a necromancy there that cannot be ignored if we are to avoid the results of Victor Frankenstein’s Promethean follies.
I have given you a picture Paffooney today of the tapestry created by the town of Rowan, Iowa for its centennial in 2002. I consider Rowan my home town. I was not born there, but it is the scene of most of my childhood. It shaped most of who I am and how I am and what I am. It is the scene of most of my fiction because that’s where the most valuable treasures of Truth are hidden, near the wishing wells of our youth. I keep it on my bedroom wall because, not only do Pooh and Fozzie like it to be there, it is a beautiful thing to look at and reflect upon. It keeps what is most important in my life in focus. I have a lot of physical pain from my six incurable diseases, and pain makes the focus blur at times. But pain is also the source of what wit and wisdom I have to offer. I will continue to contemplate and write and think and create… and draw. I will continue to post at least a portion of the results here. I do desire to make some money with my writing, but that is only a secondary concern. I am not really writing for the people who know me in real life. They already know me and made up their minds about me long ago. They might read this and that and recognize something of themselves, but they are not the ones I am speaking to at this moment. I am talking in prose to those who see my ideas for the very first time with new eyes, no preconceived notions about me. It is for them, the readers I do not personally know, that my magic spells are cast in words.