Joshua Bechtel's Blog, page 3

Of Broken Fighters

“Let me tell you a little story that will help all of this make sense, Alex.”

“Okay… I am not sure any story would be able to help me make sense out of the events of the past several days.”

“I did not say that. I just want to help you see that what you are in the middle of is part of a bigger picture than you are able to see right now.”

“Okay, then, AO, try me. Tell me this little story.”

“Have a seat, it will take a little while to tell it.”

The two sat, and AO began to weave a tale.

“There were several tools owned by a certain man.” AO began. “A sword. A sledgehammer. A finishing hammer. They attempted to unite to build. They really tried to accept the other tools, but some of them were just too far “out there”. There was simply no way some of the tools they encountered could possibly be useful in the work.

“The sword fought the enemies that attempted to detract from the work. This made sense because there were a lot of enemies to be fought and a lot of land to be cleared and a lot of mistakes to be corrected. The sword was in his glory. He finally had found his calling.

“The sledgehammer was devoted to destroying the existing dead structure and found in the finishing hammer a willing and ready ally in the demolition. The sledgehammer rejoiced that there was actually a purpose in his handle being broken. He discovered he could be useful in a lot more ways than he imagined. He began to learn what the Man intended to build and it made his heart rejoice to know he was clearing away the rubbish and ruin of who knew how many years.

“Then the finishing hammer felt the urge to begin building.

“The sword still focused on fighting the enemy.

“And the sledgehammer knew the sword could chop it to pieces…

“And the finishing hammer knew it was at the mercy of both.

“And all three more or less ignored the other tools that were on the building site, or else criticized them or congratulated themselves that they were “more in line” than the other tools.

“Confusion began to be noticed. The purposes of any of the tools began to be called into question. And the defense of the building site ceased. The needed demolition ceased. And the Architect was grieved.

“In the course of time the sword began to fight the very ones it was intended to defend. It lost sight of who the enemy actually was. For the most part the sword had perfectly pure motives. It was after all a sword.

“He was sure that he knew how to build the house, or kingdom, or castle, or just whatever it was.

“The sledgehammer could not understand how the finishing hammer could dare to become turncoat and suddenly get interested in building. There was SO much to destroy and get out of the way.

“And the finishing hammer…slunk away in despair. All had Architect inspired visions, but none of them sought His hand. And the enemy rejoiced. The sword no longer fought its real foe…it attacked its allies! The sledgehammer rose up in pride against any who dared oppose its vision.

“And the Architect was grieved, for He knew His plans for each.

“But He knew… He knew the sword had to come to the end of its pride. The sledgehammer had to be broken. The finishing hammer needed refining.

“But how many times does a person need to be broken? How often must a tool be broken? Is there an answer? Does anyone really know the answer, and if there is one, does anyone really want to know what it is?

“The progress of the building was brought to a standstill. Nothing was clear to anyone. No one knew what anyone was supposed to be doing. Chaos reigned.

“So…they came to the Architect. They came to the Architect, not in a group but separately.

“The Architect spoke thus to the sword: you are a mighty tool…in my hand. But…not all who you meet are your enemies. In fact none of your fellow tools are your enemies. No person is your enemy. Your only enemies are…My enemies. The only ones you may fight are the ones I bid you to. Your warfare is not against flesh and blood. Your battle is against the spirits that rebel against me and drag men into bondage. You have not been called to fight people. You are called to fight lies and protect people from them.

“Has it occurred to you that you can do nothing by yourself, sword?

“The sword stared at the Architect.

“You have no power unless you are in someone’s hand. You have never had power unless you were in anyone’s hand. Think back to the times that you were the cause of confusion and senseless bloodshed. That was not you or your power. You were in someone else’s hands.

“Sometimes you were in My hands, sometimes you were in the hands of my allies and sometimes you were in the hands of my foes. But you were in someone’s hands.

“I allowed you to be broken. I repaired your blade. I did this because I know what I designed you to be. I know what I want to do with you. But you must realize that you can only be it and do it in my hand. The power of the death blows you love the feel of are actually the power of My arm.

“You would do well to realize this, for if you do not you will be broken again by hands that are not Mine.”

AO paused, allowing Alex to soak in what he had just heard.

“What did the Architect say to the other tools?”

“It is not really your business to know, at this point, Alex. I sometimes tell people’s stories to others, but usually I do not. “

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“It simply does not pertain to you, Alex. If it did, I would tell you.”

“Will I ever know the rest of the story, AO?”

“Eventually, Alex.”

“But, AO, what is the point of telling me this story and not telling me all of it?”

“It is a warning, Alex, and what might be correctly called a prophecy.”

“What does that mean?”

“It depicts, in a measure, what has happened and what might happen and what will happen.”

“What might happen?”

“Yes.”

“What could that possibly mean, AO?”

“It is an invitation to enter into what I am doing in a given situation.” AO paused, as if he sensed he was going too fast for Alex to keep up.

“There are things that will take place if you do nothing. And there are things that I want to do that will be prevented, at least in a measure, if you do. And…”

“And, what?”

“There are things that you should do that you will refuse to do, and there are also things you should not do that you would do, if you knew everything about other people’s stories.”

“Why can you, how do you know these things that I am not allowed… not able to know?”

“Because of who I am.”

“That is what you always say. But you never explain. Why don’t you ever explain?” Alex was becoming exasperated and it showed.

“I don’t need to explain. You do not need to understand something for it to be true. There are things that are true just because they are true. Like, for instance, who I am. Or who you are. Your opinion of yourself does not change a single thing that is true about you. It might hide the truth from yourself, and from others for a time. But what is true about you stays the truth.”

AO stood to his feet abruptly. “I think I have given you plenty to think about for a bit.”

When Alex turned around to reply, AO was gone.

A treat… a chapter from AO!!!

“This is Sort of a Half-Way House”

Shana and AO walked in silence for a while, Shana lost in her own thoughts and AO, ever on the lookout for the slightest hint of enemy presence. They walked briskly and as quickly as Shana’s strength would allow.

It was obvious, at least to AO, that Shana was having a hard time getting her mind around the fact of who the tattoo on her forehead said she was. “How could I possibly be the daughter of a great king? If what AO is telling me is true, why was I never told? Why was I always treated like… like crap, if I am a princess? Why was I treated like I am worthless if I am so…I guess important is the right word…I wish I knew.”

AO laughed and reached for her hand. “Why don’t you ask me?”

“Ask you? Ask you what?”

“Why you were treated as if you are worthless.”

“How did you…”

“It is written all over your face, like an open book, Shana. Don’t look so shocked,” he said with a laugh.

“But how… how did you know what I was thinking, AO?”

“Because it is part of who I am.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I happen to know a thing or two about you, Shana. But we are almost to where we are going. Up there.” He pointed up the path in the direction of the biggest and strongest and yet most welcoming and at the same time most intimidating building or house or castle Shana had ever seen.

“It… it is huge. It is beautiful. It is…it is almost scary, but welcoming at the same time,” Shana clung to AO’s arm as she said this.

“Have you ever been anywhere like this?” AO asked gently.

“N…no. Even the prison was not THIS huge.”

“Ah, yes, the prison. You were incarcerated there for quite a while.”

“Yes, I was.”

“Longer than you realize, Shana.”

“What does that mean, AO?”

“Well, to begin with you were in bondage for longer than you were in an actual prison.” AO studied Shana’s face, looking for any sign that she comprehended what he said.

“I was in bondage before I was captured?!”

“You were captured, more or less, because you were in bondage. I know it is confusing if you think about it for too long, so don’t.”

They walked along, coming closer and closer to the huge beautiful house that drew Shana and scared her at the same time.

“But tell me this…” Shana paused.

“Yes? What do you want to know?” AO smiled down at her, noting her large, fear filled eyes.

“How was I in bondage before I was in the prison?”

AO allowed the question to go unanswered for a few moments as they walked. They were almost to the gated entrance of the huge house.

“Shana.”

“What, AO?”

“You have been in what might be called a mental prison almost all of your life.”

“I have?”

“What did you think made you believe you are worthless and stupid and that this tattoo on your forehead,” he touched it and ran his finger along the full length of the lettering, “was ugly and terrible?”

“Everyone says so.” Shana blurted lamely.

“Everyone?”

“Oh, AO… everyone who knows me even a little bit knows I am stupid and awkward and clumsy.”

“Because…?”

“Because I am, that’s why.”

“Really? You think that is really true, that you are stupid and awkward and clumsy?”

“It is all I know about myself.”

“What if I told you what I think about you?”

Shana pulled back. “You mean, like, um, you are hitting on me?”

AO laughed. “Not at all. Why would I ‘hit on’ someone like you?”

She glanced up and blushed when she saw his twinkling eyes. “What do you think about me, AO?” Shana asked this in an almost shy, scared voice that was barely above a whisper.

They were standing in front of the gated entrance now, AO, with his one hand on the gate, ready to open it and go in; the other hand and held Shana close to him, and they looked deep into each other’s eyes.”

“You are…” AO paused, as if seeing something that took his breath away.

“I am what, AO?”

“You are headstrong, and beautiful and a fighter. You have…” as if he could not resist the urge to do so, AO planted a kiss on Shana’s forehead. “The very sight of you makes my heart skip a beat. You seriously take my breath away, Shana.”

“AO! How dare you! How can you…” before she knew what she was doing, they were both smothering each other in embraces and kisses.

“Come, let’s go inside.”

“Where are we… we can’t just go in and make ourselves at home can we?” Shana stepped back and stared as AO opened the gate and motioned her to follow him.

“Of course we can.”

“Is this your home?”

“I have many homes, and yes, this is one of them.”

The gate closed behind them, and AO took Shana by the hand and they made their way to the entrance of the huge house. Shana could hardly believe her eyes, or ears. The entry way or courtyard was like a garden, a huge flower garden, and trees…lots of them, and birds, and something else she did not have a name for.

“What is that…smell, or aroma? What am I hearing? And what am I smelling and tasting? What am I experiencing? It is almost too much to take in all at once.”

“This is sort of a halfway house.”

“A halfway house? You mean, between prison and freedom?”

“No, not like that at all; except that maybe in a way, yes it could be that.”

“Then what is it?”

“It is a half-way house between what you would call heaven and what you would call earth.”

AO gave Shana plenty of time for this to begin to soak in.

“And…and what is that supposed to mean? What am I supposed to do here?” spluttered Shana at last.

“Meet me here whenever you like. Live here. This is your home.”

“Is this…is this even real?”

“Oh, yes, it is really real.”

“But…it is all so confusing. I was in a prison that you said was some sort of mental thing, then suddenly I am free and in a place like almost nowhere on earth and you say this is a half way house…”

“If it helps you grasp it, better, this is ‘halfway’, so to speak, between heaven and earth.”

“So I am not really here?”

“Oh, you most certainly are here. Look at you. Touch things.”

“This isn’t just a dream or some sort of fairy tale vision?”

“It is better than both, because dreams and fairy tales can be based on nothing more than imagination. This. Is real.”

“Am I here, like, forever?”

“I said this is your home for as long as you like. In a way you will stay here “forever” and in a way, this will be kind of like your headquarters. You might come and go. But for right now, there is another, really important reason why you are at this halfway house.”

“What is that?”

“When you were in the prison, you were treated brutally. In fact, what you thought was a terrible dream… remember it?”

Shana nodded with a shiver of terror as the memory of the dream flashed through her mind.

“That actually happened, or almost happened, I should say. You were rescued from more than you are able to comprehend and more than I am able to explain to you. Believe me, it was horrific.”

“And I am here at this ‘halfway house’ for what, AO?”

“To get healed. To gain your strength. You are not even aware of the depth of some of your wounds, and without rest and without access to what is here, you would never have a chance to fully recover.”

Shana stared at AO, with tears in her eyes and flowing down her cheeks. “AO, will I ever get well? Am I ever going to recover? Or is my condition hopeless?”

“Hopeless? No, I never said hopeless and I am not going to start calling it hopeless now. That is rather beside the point of this place, anyhow.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Shana, you are going to recover. There is more in store for you than what you have known and what you have experienced up till now. You are needed, but first, you need to be here and recover and gain your strength.

“But AO, tell me…”

“Listen, my sister, my beloved, you must rest. You will know enough in time.”

AO helped Shana into the bed and then he bent over and kissed her on the forehead again.

“You must rest, sleep the sleep of the beloved.”

Within moments, Shana, the freed prisoner, daughter of the great King, the warrior princess who did not know who she actually was had fallen into a deep sleep.

AO left the room and closed the door behind him.

Reader inspired Q&A about AO

Q: AO intrigues me, and makes me smile.

A: Good, He should intrigue you.

Q: I love the way he talks to Alex; its just so perfectly cryptic, but I trust him (even if Alex isn’t quite so sure, haha).

A: That is good if you trust AO :). (I am not sure I would be “quite so sure, myself”, either :D )

Q: And oh my word, the revelations in chapter seven! I’m excited to see what it all means, about Rand Smith, etc.

A: Rand may need his own book. {spoilers}

Q: And is Shana from/being held in another world/realm, or in the same one as Alex, which I assume is our world (he has a cell, uses a gun, etc)?

A: Maybe.

Q:  I keep thinking it could be either way, since Alex met her recently, but the Enemy mentioned she had a sword and threatened her with slavery or public execution/humiliation, which seems to imply, in my head, anyway, that they are in another realm.

A: Intriguing pattern of thought there.

Q: Though of course, they could all very well be in the same world/realm/place, and my assumption about Alex being in ours is inaccurate…or, they could all be in ours.

A: Keep reading :D

Q: Haha, as you can see, you’ve got me intrigued!

A: That is good. Keep reading.

Q: Feel free not to answer if it would spoil anything or is explained later. :)

A: It may be explained, later. {spoilers}

 

why is it so messy?

This is a bit of a departure from the normal schedule of posts about FMV and such like. I am going to post a few pictures from a landscaping project I am in the middle of.

And the reason is, to address the question…

Why does this thing called “a move of God” have to be so…

Messy?

Like, seriously… why does there have to be a mess…

Can’t things just be left the way they were?

What is with getting rid of what was in order to make room for new stuff?

I mean, look… new things are messy to implement…

It is wild, far from tame and just a little bit more than scary. Who knows where Papa is going to take us if we let Him take us beyond the comfortable of what we have always known…

“They might not even survive…”

Look, look, look… disorder! chaos! This cannot be good, or a move of God.

Oh, really?

You might need to step back and take a little bit of a longer view to see what is being done amid the mess…

Or… just go ahead and focus on what you want.

Life is messy.

Life is sometimes chaotic.

Life is good.

JPB

 

Why “Finding My Voice”? (Part 2)

In the course of the next approximately two years, I began to allow myself to dream, and in a small scale, plan how to eventually have my own publishing company. It seems clear that traditional publishing is becoming a thing of the past and that self-publishing is more and more on the rise.

After doing some research I found that there are several good self-publishing companies online.

I have been a member of several writer critique groups in the past fourteen years or so. These have been both snail mail and email groups. I was also on the editing team for a prison ministry magazine called Loaves and Fishes, for about two years. I self-edited my first book, and that was a mistake, as most of the professionals will attest. When Finding My Voice went into its second edition, and prepared as an ebook, I had a seasoned editor friend, who has served in the military and know her way around words, give the document a thorough once over, and with excellent results. (Thank you, Miriam!)

So, I have figured out part of what I want to do when I grow up… something along the lines of publishing and writing. (Having two self-published books, and working on a novel is a reasonably good running start, I should say.)

Eventually, it dawned on me that I may as well start a small business doing what I love… wrestling words into position on a page. Someone generously assisted me in the process of becoming somewhat official and… lo and behold, the unforeseen… I needed a business name.

Well, there is the title of my first book… Finding My Voice. That would make an interesting business name, especially since it pretty much boils down what I think words and ink on a page are supposed to do… give an author a voice. And, there are some people, and some subjects, and some issues that seem to find better and easier expression on a page.

It also further makes sense since the book by that title and the one that followed soon after, Adoption: A Journey of Discovering God’s Grace, is more or less an attempt to bring to light a few of the issues that “we” foster and adopted kids know we experience and, lend some help (hopefully) in beginning to deal with it.

Which brings this to the point of considering, what is the point of this venture called Finding My Voice?

Why “Finding My Voice”? (part one)

The book came first, and then the title.

Seriously.

I was writing a memoir and at the same time was wondering why I was even doing it. I was afraid that if I told my truth, it would get me into hot water with some people. If I told my story, some people would think I was out to destroy them, or make them look bad, or somehow color myself as the faultless victim of some horrendous abuse.

Or something.

But back to the book. I was in a cute little coffee shop in the delightful small town of Spruce Pine, NC. I had the book almost done and was frantically trying to come up with the title.

And I had a conversation.

“I don’t really even know why I am writing this book. It is hard writing, and it is even harder reading. I am not even sure I would read this book.”

We sipped our coffee and I took in the sights and sounds and smells of the coffee shop and absently watched the train across the road.

“I will tell you why you are writing this book,” the friend I was hanging out with said presently.

“What? Tell me.”

“You are going to be writing more books than this one. People are going to want to know who this character is who wrote all these books. This book will be your introduction.”

Sitting there in that coffee shop, I had no idea how I would even get one book done, let alone another, or another…

So my friend left to go home and I turned my attention to my book in progress. I read, for the maybe fiftieth time the account of where I heard the Voice of God answer some questions I had about… life.

Suddenly, as if by inspiration, I knew I had the title of this book. It would be Finding My Voice.

Chapter 14 from AO

                “I called you to this secret meeting to discuss what we can do to thwart AO’s promise to rescue Shana from our power.”

                It was hard to tell exactly how many there were in the chamber, or how large it was, or even who “you” was. There were only one or two torches on one wall, and their whitish yellowish bluish flames added to the eeriness of the chamber.

                “You mean to tell me there is any question what we have to do to her?”

                “Get to…are allowed to do to her.”

                “Ah, the rules. Damn the rules.”

                “The rules must be obeyed.”

                “Pshaw. AO seldom plays totally by the rules. Why should we be bound to the rules that AO bends at will?”

                “Are you as crazy as you sound?”

                “We began as a rebellion, if I must remind you.”

                There was a murmur of agreement.

                “AO does not even play fair. We have no idea what all he has told Shana, or Alex, for that matter.”

                “We have what we have over heard.”

                “Yes, but there is no way we can even pretend we have heard everything that has gone on between them. AO has his ways that are far beyond us.”

                “Do you HAVE to remind us of that…that…fact?”

                “I am not sure I have much choice.”

                “Pshaw. You are right and we all know it.”

                “M’lord, a word in private?”

                “Does it pertain?”

                “Very much, m’lord.”

                The two left the chamber momentarily. When they returned, both were livid… almost energized. Their eyes gleamed, or smoldered.

                “M’lords, we have a plan!”

                “A plan?”

                “Is it better than the last time you had a plan?”

                “The last time I had a plan?”

                There were snarls and jeers from all around the chamber.

                “Allow me to remind you that I called this meeting.”

                “AND the last time you, or any of us had a plan of any count it played right into the schemes of the great One.”

                “Why do you refer to him like that?”

                “My hatred of him, my rebellion against him, my total disdain of him does not in the slightest blind me to who he is.”

                There was a thunderous, loud silence.

                “M’lord?”

                “Continue.”

                “I know him. I fear him. I hate him.”

                “As do we all.”

                “If possible, we must kill him.”

                “We did that once…at least, we tried.”

                “Yes, of course.”

                “But does this present round of his friends, ahem, siblings, know this?”

                “Based on the evidence, no.”

                “NO?!”

                The thundered question reverberated in the chamber.

                “Do we know?”

                “Not precisely, M’lord. You know as well as all of us that we have to use faulty intelligence at best.”

                “I know.”

                “And the evidence?”

                “It appears that this round of friends is just about as clueless as any.”

                “That being established, what do they know about AO?”

                “From all appearances, not very much, M’lord.”

                “Do they know anything about him?”

                “What, specifically are you asking?”

                “Do they know that he appears in dreams, at will?”

                “That is unclear. But I would propose that we act as if they do.”

                “I disagree, M’lord.”

                “On what grounds?”

                “There is no evidence that any of them have ever had AO appear to them in a vision or dream.”

                “At least, that you know about.”

                “Are you implying…?”

                “That YOU do?”

                “I am implying that AO refuses to play fair. WE try to make certain he is out of sight when we appear to anyone.”

                The others in the chamber indicated their unwilling assent. They all knew it was true, liked or not.

                “What ARE you implying, then?”

                “I am implying,” he said this slowly, deliberately, “I am implying that AO has appeared to any or all of them when we have been absent.”

                “But we do not absolutely know this.”

                “We have to assume that this is true.”

                “But we also do not know, so we have to assume, in my opinion, that he hasn’t appeared to them, that he has not told them much about himself, and that they have little, or no faith in him.”

                “That is the assumption of a fool!”

                “It is an assumption, and a risk that we are forced to take!”

                “Shall we put this foolish proposition to a vote, m’lords?”

                “Since it is, in your judgment, so foolish, I move that you give your recommendation. Do you have a better plan?”

                “M’lord, I am sorry, but I do not.”

                “That is exactly what I thought.”

                “Yes, m’Lord.”

                “Since we do not have much time, we are forced to pursue the risky course of proceeding as if AO’s friends know next to nothing about him.”

                The chamber grew quiet.

                “We have to break what little faith Alex and Shana have in AO. I am not sure if we can actually KILL AO.” He paused. “But I am reasonably sure that we can arrange to, ahem, have Shana, ahem, disposed of, in an, er, interesting manner.”

                “Even if such is technically illegal?”

                “Precisely BECAUSE it is illegal!”

                “How can you…what are you trying to do?”

                Their chief stood to his feet and spread his caped arms wide. “I am trying to start… a war!”

                “A war?!”

                “I am going to draw AO out and pick a fight and break AO’s heart and, yes, start a war.”

                “Don’t you remember what happened the last time?”

                “Listen, yes, I do, but you are forgetting.”

                “Forgetting?”

                “We know. AO knows. We can’t forget. AO probably never will forget.” He paused to catch his breath. “We can only hope, and assume, as the evidence suggests, that AO’s feeble minded, feeble hearted friends have forgotten!”

                “Again, that is a fool’s hope.”

                “It is our only hope.”

                “It does mean, however, that we have something to do.”

                “It also means that this counsel is dismissed?”

                “Has anything been decided?”

                “Yes.”

                “What?”

                “Are you dense or are you being truly sarcastic?”

                “What has been decided?”

                “We… we have to kill AO. Failing that, we need to mutilate any hope or faith that his friends have in him.”

                “And, how will we do that, exactly?”

                “Do you have to know how, or will you accept it when you have proof of the deed on the floor in front of you?”

                “We do not have time on our side. The technicalities will have to be dispensed with in order to have the needed results.”

                “So it will be done?”

                “Yes, M’Lord.

                “Then, in the name of the destruction of everything that AO and the Great King hold dear, be gone and see to it!”

                How “it” would be done, none of those in the council chamber knew exactly. They did not even know if it could be done. They only knew it must be done.

that thing called washing feet…

Maybe this is what Jesus Christ meant… Purely spontaneous. Serving the youth who are going to go further than we are.

And especially serving the youth who have just entered the Kingdom and are already going hard after God and serving each other.

 

Keith and Mia, our awesome and incredibly anointed and humble pastors

Someday… the entire world will hear and marvel at what are done by these hands and where these feet will go.

#freedomweekend

 

the 10,000 hour rule

This rule basically says that before you “strike it big”, you need to have about 10,000 hours of practice time behind you. Ten thousand hours equals out to approximately ten years.

This was brought to my attention lately when a friend bought me Malcom Gladwell’s amazing book Outliers.

Ten years. I am 36 years old. If I am successful at anything now it is because I have about ten years (or more) practice time behind me. Much of it has been hidden. After all, how much of the foundation do you see when you look at a house? Or a skyscraper?

The ten thousand hour rule indicates that if I am good at anything, and am starting to “make a go” of it, I have been building a foundation of practice and experience, for about ten years. The rule implies that I have had a few knocks and setbacks, and MAYBE a few minor or major events that you could call victories among the defeats. Or maybe the other way around.

I have been writing off and on since close to my last year of school. (That is a lot longer ago than ten years, and most of the attempts at poetry and what might have been considered childish or even wannabe prose have been discarded along the way.

But at the age of approximately 24 I began this habit called journaling. And I kept at it for approximately eight years. Some of it has yet to be seen by the eyes of others, and there is a lot that should probably never see the light of day again.

But I spent a number of years writing my first book, which is a memoir called Finding My Voice. I have kept several (yes, several) writing projects at some degree of simmer between low simmer to a near boil.

Some of what I have written has been good, and very good (so they tell me). Some of what I have written would be better off forgotten in the dustbin of nice tries failed attempts to string sentences together.

However… I have not written my best line… or book… or poem, yet. I might have written my worst one of each of those. (The reader may judge.)

If the 10,000 hour rule means what I think it mean, I have just finished laying the foundation for a sprawling, exciting and almost unbounded and limitless literary career.

And it started with scribbling on notebook paper. With pencils.

Over 10,000 hours ago.

Cheers!