I am once more displaced in my day job and more tired of the turmoil than anything else.

My youngest son, as he always says when I’m worried about my job, says maybe it’s a sign from God that he wants me to write.

Yeah, it might be.

“And with the life you’ve lived,” my son goes on, “God has sent you plenty to write about.”

I look at him. “Remember the movie, The Ten Commandments?”


“In that movie, God writes the ten commandments on blocks of stone. If God wants something written, he is perfectly capable of writing it himself.”

He bursts out laughing. I don’t know what is always so damned funny when I’m upset and venting.

Nothing is funny to me today. I am worried. I am tired of worrying. Writing is not anything I am interested in, except maybe blogging.

I’ve had a shitty life. I’m in the final years of that life, and nothing is ever going to get any better.

Write? Why?


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