Joseph R. Goodall's Blog, page 3

The Story Isn't Over Yet

The past month has been a low point in the ebb and flow of my creativity.

I’ve felt like giving up on my next book, even though it’s nearing the finish line. Certainly, my low mood stems in part from my pesky perfectionism and the limited time I have to devote to writing. Also on my mind is the concern that no one will like what I have to say, uncertainty about my goals as an author and the self-criticism of being unproductive.

But mostly it’s a lack of vision, forgetting why I do what I do as...

Not By Bread Alone

Though no one wants to go to bed on an empty stomach, how many of us would find our days fulfilling if we merely woke up, ate three meals, and then returned to sleep? A force stronger than hunger works in each of us: motivating, intriguing, and sometimes even gnawing at our innermost being to continue our search for significance and affirmation of our dignity and purpose. Regardless of our social status or age, this longing is part of being human.

Unlike machines, we devote time to "unproducti...

Would They Even Want To? (Link)

The places we live are like silent witnesses. The most intimate parts of our lives occur on the patch of earth we claim, perhaps with a two-car garage, a tiny garden and a fenced yard for our dog to run around. Can we separate our sense of self from the four walls and a roof we call “home?” How far does our sense of responsibility and ownership extend?

Thank you to “Flora Fiction” for publishing my short story in their online literary magazine.

“The parents and two children yanked open drawer...

The History of Manalak

I am working on a story set in the fictional seaside village of Manalak. This is a short mythology of their community.

- - - - -

The seemingly endless ocean, with its green and blue foam-capped undulations, found an end at the black sand shore of Manalak village. Lined with white-flowering palms and speckled gray dunes, the coastline transitioned inland to lush, rocky hills crowned with clusters of thatched-roof huts.

Developed and stewarded by generations of hardworking villagers, the town ce...

A Tapestry Spanning All Time

The vines are anchored to the tree are great, hairy, bulging ropes, winding up the rough bark like parasitic leeches. Wrapped in the fast-growing creepers, the towering tree has become a mannequin clothed in constricting garments. The tangled, matted vine roots hide the base of the tree trunk, creating a heavy net that extends out to the forest floor, tugging the mammoth downward, sapping its energy. Truly the Maker intended for all trees to be unfettered, spreading their canopy as equal parts o...

Saturday Morning Search

Saturday morning

Wide-eyed weekend exploring

In search of a poem

Not contained in a book

My subconscious is a knotted net

Yearning for expression and confidence

The librarian asks if it’s poetry month

I tell her I have no idea

I’m simply looking for Maya Angelou

Turns out she has a wealth of companions

A constellation of storytellers and stanzas

Spread across dusty bookshelves on the third floor

I collect one after another, stacked in my arms

Books like disclosed diaries

Rich like banquet t...

Profiles in Courage

From the opposite end of the parking deck I saw him lying there, the concrete below stained red. Rows of concrete pillars stood as silent observers, like the other people in our building who might have walked by without stopping. I had worked late and there were only a few parked cars in sight. I checked my phone but there was no cell service.

My better judgement prodded me, warning me to keep my distance. Was this curiosity, foolishness, or heroism? Even still, I crossed over to check his pul...

The Improvised Bus Ride

Although he was curious by nature, Jules interacted with his neighborhood using extreme caution, carrying around his dad’s stubborn mistrust of people. He didn’t own a bike, nor did he want to join in the street games of football, basketball or wiffle ball, so he kept to the maze of hidden passageways throughout the neighborhood, the stretches of woods between rows of houses, the gaps between fence lines, the railroad tracks, or the concrete drainage ditch that spilled into a brown, winding stea...

Slam Dunk

I’m sprinting down the court. My feet, hands, hips and head move in a unified blur, a dance. Twist, tuck, leap, stretch. Bounding up to the hoop with the wingspan of an eagle going in for the kill.

Four pairs of eyes and hands meet me at the net, but I’m head and shoulders above them. Flipping the basketball over the rim, I grasp the cold metal and swing my legs out like Tarzan.

I float down to the concrete in a daze, ignoring the cheers from the bleachers as I’m blinded by the afternoon ...

Places (Guest Post)

I stood opposite my neighbor Michael with my heart still racing and my breathing lengthening out until it became slower and more relaxed. It was some time around the early evening — the sun was in the process of setting and the street lights were starting to come on. We had bumped into each other on the sidewalk around the corner from my house while he was taking his dog, Fenway, out for a walk and I was coming back from a short run.

I’ve known Michael for the three years he’s lived in our ...