March was a weird and delightful month for reading. The first week, I was exhausted, the second, had a whole week off of work and school, the third, had two major events and midterms, and the fourth, had to get back into the rhythm of everyday life.

All this to say, I read nothing, then a lot, then nothing again. Some of these books are a distant memory, which is why I wrote their reviews immediately after finishing them. One book, however, remains fresh in my mind;

Book of the Month: The Penderwicks at Point Mouette by Jeanne Birdsall

A compelling summer vacation story about sisterhood and families reuniting

Near the end of March, I was feeling so exhausted that I was in desperate need for a re-read. The Penderwick sisters are very dear friends, and I turned to the third book in the series, as I have already read the first two earlier this year.

Skye, Jane, and Batty are torn away from their oldest sister and parents as the family goes in different directions for summer vacation. Skye waves goodbye to her older (and more responsible) sister and parents, feeling great trepidation at the idea of being the OAP (oldest available Penderwick). At least her best friend, Jeffery, will be there, along with her beloved Aunt Claire!

But within forty-eight hours after they arrive at the oceanfront cabin, Aunt Claire falls and hurts her leg, Jane falls madly in love, and Jeffery is rendered oblivious by a friendly neighbor’s piano. What’s worse, Skye’s OAP master list is soddened beyond repair when she dives into the ocean to save a dog.

Birdsall somehow combines the realistic chaos of family vacation and sibling squabbles with an endearing, loyal, dynamic family culture. It gives readers a whiff of their own family vacations, and ultimately reminds me of the best and most formative parts of a happy childhood. This may be a comfort read, but it is so for a very good reason!

The Penderwicks in Spring by Jeanne Birdsall

Like the Book of the Month, but if you want a good, nostalgic cry

After tearing through Point Mouette, I kept right on in the series and tore through In Spring. Be warned, lovers of The Penderwicks who haven’t yet read the later books in the series; while the first three books cover the course of a single year, when childhood reigns supreme and the beloved characters change in ratio to the passage of time, this book jumps forward five years. Rosalind is off at college, Skye is near graduation, Jane is popular and burdened with car trouble, and Batty finds that, though she’d always been the baby before, she’s an older sister.

This isn’t the only thing Batty finds in this installment of The Penderwicks. She learns how to deal with loss, new talent, and growing up.

This is the Penderwicks book I pick up when I want to cry, a lot. Birdsall doesn’t pull any punches about the hard reality that when you grow up, all your siblings do, too.

Roar by Stacy T. Sims, Ph.D. and Selene Yeager

A practical guide for active women

I bought this book because I’d listened to Stacy Sims on podcasts like Huberman Lab and Diary of a CEO, and her expertise was a total game changer.

Roar held the same value for me. She provided scientific explanation for different women’s health issues, recipes for different times of day and cycle, and even exercise recommendations.

The most helpful part for me what the distinction Dr. Sims made (“women are not small men”) between the sexes, and her detailed medical explanations. Because I am not an athlete, however, I wasn’t the target audience for this work. Be that as it may, it was still very helpful, and I would recommend the podcasts I mentioned to any average woman and the book to any female athlete.

So, two comfort reads and a health & wellness book. I’m pretty okay with that!

Thanks for stopping in!

My in-laws had to drive something of an extra hour in order to get my husband’s keys from the wedding venue, and then drive me back home. I felt harried, guilty, thankful, and frankly, ticked off at myself.

Those four descriptors capture March very well. I had the busiest weekend of the season (harried) I didn’t meet any of my writing goals (guilty), I had a delightful spring break (thankful), but I also feel as if I have wasted so much time (ticked off).

Harried

This month, I visited my family, tried to give the apartment a good spring cleaning, emcee’d an event at Great Northern University to wrap up an internship, gave a speech at a Gala in front of over 500 people (and won some cash for it!), started a new side job, clawed my way into being a week ahead on homework, and followed up with the connections I made over this month. Yikes.

It was a lot to cram into one month, probably too much. I hope some of you can relate when I say that one of my fatal character flaws is that I see blank space on my calendar as space to be filled, not rest to be cherished.

Guilty

I had a great deal of writing goals for March . . . anything from word counts to hours clocked in. I didn’t hit any, or forgot to track for them. As I reflect, I hold up the amount of commitments I had up next to my goals and recognize that I didn’t set myself up to fulfill those goals. The takeaway is that a human only has the capacity to do the work of one human . . . including me.

Thankful

I can’t spend this whole reflection complaining and wallowing. This March, I took my very last spring break for undergrad. I had time to clean and write, and do nothing. While my incomplete goals list glares at me, I am forced to recognize that I couldn’t have fulfilled all my obligations without this little breath on the second week of March.

While I tend to fill up space on my calendar, I deliberately gave myself a day and a half to do nothing at all. I thank God that I did!

Ticked Off

March feels like such a waste! I had more than four weeks, and lot of things to be done! I struggle to not put myself down over the way the month unfolded . . . over what actions I did and didn’t take.

My point here isn’t that March was a failure for me. Rather, this reflection, this comparing-notes-with-myself article is revealing something very important to me;

I’m only human. I have a human capacity to do things. If I expect any more, I am doing a disservice to myself and the people I make commitments to.

For April

To be honest, I thought the weekend with the University event and the speech contest was the weekend before I graduated (May 9^th). In reality, April is a month between March and May, a friend offering to come over and fold a load of laundry for me.

Instead of generating a laundry list for myself, in order that I may despise my own limitations by the end of next month, I am going to take a bit of a break from adding more goals on top of my preexisting routines. I already have a full schedule, and I already set aside time on most days to get writing done. So, I suppose my non-goal for April is to keep going.

What is your goal for April? How was your March? Subscribe and start a conversation in the comments!

“What do you mean, you don’t listen to music?” A peer asked, sounding almost offended.

I guess I didn’t realize until then that such a remark was strange.

Now, here’s what I didn’t mean; I never listen to music. Anyone who follows my notes knows I love music and frequently get excited about pairing the right kind of music with whatever I’m writing at the time.

Here’s what I did mean: In my Spotify wrapped, I was stunned to see that I spent about 25,000 minutes listening to music last year . . . and about 50,000 minutes listening to podcasts or sermons. That’s not including audiobooks or Substack listening time.

What the heck.

This realization was spotlighted even further by an innocent would-you-rather game at the youth group at which I serve as a leader. In this game, I chose to give up music for the sake of podcasts, shows, and movies. “But you couldn’t ever listen to worship music again!” A youth student pointed out incredulously. I replied that I didn’t primarily find God in listening to worship music in private. I received a shocked, you-heretic look before the game rushed on, leaving me with no chance to even explain to myself what I meant. But what I had said was true. I don’t “feel closest to God” (whatever that means) while I’m listening to worship music.

Is there something wrong with me?

In reality, I “feel” closest to God in worship of word, with or without capital W. When I’m writing, when I’m reading and studying scripture, when I’m translating from the Greek New Testament (badly, clumsily), when I’m writing devotionals and prayers on paper. EVEN when I DO worship through song, I reflect on the WORDS (and how they make me feel), not how the music makes me FEEL.

The good thing for me is that worship through words isn’t condemned by God, but rather, endorsed. He asks the prophets to record their visions by writing them down, poetry is an entire genre of scripture, and anyone who spends a little time studying the narrative arc of Scripture understands that God himself is a masterful author.

Another good thing for me is that seeking a “feeling close to God” activity is a false start (though not an immoral one). The point of my faith is not to pursue feeling first, which is why I worship in song. God commanded me to sing (Ephesians 5, Colossians 3 . . .), so I sing. I enjoy singing in church and I listen to worship music. But if I wasn’t commanded to worship through song, I probably wouldn’t. It’s not my weapon of choice.

But there aren’t just two camps of people who follow Christ, musical vs. words-focused people. I know other people who have expressed the same feelings as me, though with reflective Scripture reading, public speaking (or preaching), through pictures (or images), through silence and solitude, through godly community, or through evangelism.

I’m not here to make a great theological point. There are other people on Substack who could to a much better job at such a task. Rather, I would like to share my conclusion with those of you who, like me, may be feeling a little guilty for not choosing worship music over some other participation in your Christian walk.

Conclusion: Nothing is wrong with me, but there is something very right with who God made me to be. He’s given me something precious, a lovely way through which I as an individual, as his unique child, can connect with Him.

Perhaps God designs us in this way, granting us a special way through which we can “feel” closest to him. We are commanded to worship him in all ways (community, Word, music . . .), but couldn’t it be a grace of God that there are forms of worship that are special to us individually? Couldn’t that be how our relationship is made personal, intimate?

Agree? Please comment and let me know! Disagree? Please comment and let me know! I’d rather know I’m wrong than have secret dissenters prowling about!

Book of the Month: A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

A quiet story of aristocracy unfolding in a time of national tragedy and tumult.

The Count, condemned to remain a helpless aristocrat in Russia in the 1920s, is sentence to take up permanent residence in a grand hotel in Moscow. As the country heaves about him, the Count remains in the hotel for decades, watching his beloved country change, suffer, and build up into Stalin’s land.

In the hotel, the Count lives his easy life, but is left unsatisfied. It takes the company of a young girl to help him learn how to truly live his life, enclosed as he is.

This book wrecked me. I love the quiet, and I loved the slapstick, and I loved the heartbreak. Initially, I selected this book to prime me for The Brothers Karamazov, but was pleasantly surprised by how formative this book was. I am confident I will return to the Count someday soon, and we will have a very good time over lunch in the Piazza.

Wishtress by Nadine Brandes

A marvelous study of gifts, talents, and using them for others . . . in a beautifully crafted fantasy world!

This is the second book I’ve read by Brandes, and her description, dialogue, and character development are the most beautiful I’ve read in a long time. As I read Wishtress, I was actually shutting the book in shock and surprise from the beginning. The story follows Myrthe, a peasant with the miraculous ability to grant wishes, and Bastiaan, a strange young man with lifetimes of experience in the Well of Talents.

An evil king, a rebellion, and a witch all fight for their own ends, and Bastiaan and Myrthe are tempted to do the same. Will they give in to their own wants, or will they make the greatest sacrifice to help others?

Brandes has built a fantasy world that Disney attempted with Frozen. Her writing is beautiful, but not a word is wasted. A bonus: her villains are easy to despise, but developed with great depth and backstory. I would recommend this book to anyone, especially in these cold winter months!

The Penderwicks on Gardam Street by Jeanne Birdsall

A snapshot of the aches and loves of girlhood, childhood, and sisterhood.

I adore The Penderwicks series, and took a break from the nonfiction I’ve been picking away at to tear through the second book of Birdsall’s series.

Four sisters, their large black dog, and their widowed father live in their beloved house and beloved cul de sac, normal to an outsider, but a magical, kingdom-esque place to the Penderwick sisters and those who read about them.

In oldest sister Rosalind’s opinion, their life is perfectly balanced, timed to the rhythm of a strange enchanting song. Sour notes begin to play when their father receives a letter, written by their deceased mother before she died. The contents of the letter throw all of their lives out of sync, and the sisters have to stick together as they face strange new changes head-on.

With stories of change, deceit, confession, and reconciliation, this book remains in my top five favorite installments of this series (yes, there are five, but you can’t possible expect me to choose?).

While my mother has the Ramona books to mark the era of her childhood, I will always have The Penderwicks. When my kids ask me what it was like to grow up young in the early 2000s, I will point them to Jane’s notebooks full of stories, Skye’s annoyance with younger siblings and everyone in general, Batty’s stuffed animals and red wagon adventures, and Rosalind’s Latin classes. This series is near and dear to my heart, and will probably appear in this series again.

Do YOU like any of these books? Hate them? Subscribe and send me a message, and let’s talk about it!

Honestly, my internal state leads me to agree more with the latter. I had some hard news this month, a month-long writing slump, and have found myself in a routine where I don’t see my husband 4/7 days a week, and the early growth I had on this platformed slowed to a halt.

But even as I type this, listening to the new Mumford & Sons album, next to a whirring espresso machine at work, the sun sheds a cloud and casts light over my purple-circled eyes.

Blessings of February

The last week of February, both my husband and I received news about two lucrative creative opportunities, both of which we can work on together. This last week, the sun began to shine again. This last week, I found encouragement in a small critique group. This last week, I finished the 3^rd draft of Love, Your Nighbor. As I wrote this up, I took a break to register for a fiction writer’s conference that will give me opportunities to meet one on one with publishers, editors, and published authors.

This month wasn’t that great. But as I reflect on what actually happened this month, in events, not feeling, I find it was a month of blessings, if not happiness. It was a month of hard work, and opportunities open, not a harvest month. If this is something I’m going to do long time, I’d better get used to those kinds of months!

Lesson Learned: Pursuing writing for the sake of ease and constant reward is a mistake, and impossible.

As I continue to learn and grow in my craft, I would love your support! Subscribe to get unique insight into a young writer actively pursing a career writing fiction, and learn with me!

Thanks for checking in!

-Haley

This month, I’m loathing Sven from Wishtress. Check out my post this weekend to find out why!

Why do I hate Mother Theresa?

And why do I defend the heretic?

What makes me push against

What everyone else always lauds?

Servant leaders commit treason.

Charities are corrupted.

The faith-based magazine is biased,

And that Instagram Christian is a fraud.

I am neutral,

I am clear minded,

I’ve found the truth.

The man who found the free gift of grace

Gives himself a finder’s fee.

Yes, Mother Theresa is no good.

I oust her from her throne

Her seat labelled, “holier than thou.”

I say,

“That will teach the pre-madonna-

Virgin-Mary-wannabes, the believers

Who run the race of Paul

Like it’s a race for political office.”

“That will teach the popular author,

The highly praised church leaders

Who’s imperfections have been buried

Under money and smooth words.”

I kick Mother Theresa aside,

Shaking my head at her arrogance,

As I put on her crown

And sit myself in her seat.

PC: Grisaille Panel (French) ca. 1265 On view at The Met Cloisters in Gallery 08

My goal for this year is to read for one hour during the day, and one chapter before bed. I’ve managed to cover a lot of pages with this habit, especially once I get hooked on a story and can’t stop even when the hour is up for the day.

While I anticipate my pace slowing after I start the school year, I had a very rich month of reading, of getting “back in the saddle,” so to speak. I am excited to share my reading list for January.

This Month’s Favorite: Once a Queen by Sarah Arthur.

A mysterious tale of secret worlds, family secrets, and dealing with trauma.

Eva Joyce, a teenaged American, is brought by her mother to visit her English grandmother for the very first time. Eva has lots of questions, like why she has never met this grandmother before, what happened to make her mother so bitter towards her grandmother, and why her grandmother’s estate seems to be overrun with magic.

Eva’s investigations lead her to discover things about her family history, things that explain the strange behavior of her mother, and past hurts that bring out the worst of her grandmother.

Sarah Arthur explores a side of secret-world stories that I’ve never thought about before. She addresses first, not the nature of the otherworld, but what happened to it’s human visitors after they return from their adventures. If you love Narnia or E. Nesbit, this is a book for you.

The Millionaire Next Door by Thomas J. Stanley and William D. Danko

A book of statistics with some practical tips.

My first nonfiction book of the year had a LOT of numbers. Two PhDs share the findings of their study on America’s millionaires and their lifestyles. The results may surprise you!

Essentially, Stanley and Danko argue that America’s millionaire are where they are, not because they live lavish lifestyles, but because they are frugal. They have tendencies to invest and save their money than to spend it.

My dad gave me this book for Christmas, so I sent him a text summarizing my takeaways from the book; “1. Be more frugal, find bargains even when you have the money to NOT find bargains. 2. Set aside time every week to budget, financially plan, and invest. 3. Invest!” (I also joked, “4. Never live in my parents basement.”)

This was a statistic-dense read, with lots of tables. If your like books like that, or if you struggle with retaining cash or financial strategy, this book is a good one!

The Master Magician by Charlie N. Holmberg

A fantastical book, featuring a unique magic system and a compelling romance.

I was thrilled with the way Holmberg decided to end her series, this being the third book featuring Ceony and Emery. Holmberg introduced an original magical system, featuring magicians who are tied to different man-made objects. In the first installment, The Paper Magician, Ceony is bound against her will to paper as her only magical outlet, and forced to be the apprentice to Emery.

I can’t say much else in order to avoid spoilers, but Holmberg does an amazing job with worldbuilding and character development, especially in the first book. All three are well-structured and action-packed. If I had re-read the first book, it would have been my favorite for this month!

Romanov by Nadine Brandes

A beautifully written interpretation of a familiar tale

Brandes has written a fresh story from an age-old legend, writing about the mysterious Romanov family and their execution during the Bolshevik revolution. Her main character is, of course, Anastasia “Nastya” Romanov, and tells a powerful story of forgiveness and second chances . . . even to those who commit the worst of crimes against us.

My husband has confided to me that Branded has some of the most beautiful writing he has ever read, and I have to agree. I would recommend this book to anyone, even (maybe especially) if they loved Disney’s Anastasia.

The Blood Miles by Andrew Moody

If Pilgrim’s progress was post-apocalyptic and a subtler allegory

Chris Walker is the new Pilgrim in Moody’s dystopian Pilgrim’s Progress. He uncovers a secret about The Tox – the disease that overthrew their natural order- and realizes he is in need of the Cure.

I expected this read to be too similar to Pilgrim’s Progress, especially in the first few chapters of the story. But as the story unfolded, Moody infused the familiar tale with tension and stakes that weren’t present in the original allegory. I liked this book, and will probably re-read it in the future.

If you didn’t like Pilgrim’s Progress, this might help.

This was a good month for tackling my TBR, but as soon as the school year launched I was back to snatching chapters during five-minute breaks. Right now, I’m snailing through another book by Brandes, and looking forward to writing about it next month!

Wow, you got this far? Drop your favorite January read below!

So I did.

This week concludes my very first full month of being a writer, out-loud. Sure, I wrote a lot before, and shared it with people I knew would still like me even if they thought it was bad.

I was playing safe. But I hadn’t started, yet.

Now, here I am, a month into this journey that I am totally psyched about (or psyching myself out about? Jury’s still out).

Committments

I’ve published notes every day (except for one . . . the plague got me). I’ve internet-met some amazing folks. It’s all fun and games, until I actually commit to something. Until I tell you, promise you, that I will deliver something you can depend on.

Before God (and under scrutiny of King’s direct callings-out), I do not feel safe playing around. So here’s my commitments to those of you reading this (thank you, by the way);

1. I will publish at least one note, every day.

2. I will post at least two posts per month, with a goal of eventually posting weekly. The two posts will include one reflection on the previous month (a kind of newsletter, so you can follow my journey), and a post reviewing all the books I’ve read that month.

There. I’ve committed. At least, I will have when I publish this.

But now I’ve promised you something like a newsletter, so perhaps I’d better start newslettering.

Why I’m Here

I was maybe six when I wrote my first book, with red crayon and poached printer paper. I’ve wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember, and that desire has been affirmed by the people God put in my life, who are closest to me; my husband, my family, my mentors, my friends. In my life, writing has always been a catalyst of growth. I am constantly wrestling with pride, embarrassment, fear, and confidence (I have all four). In these past few weeks, more than ever, I perceived a push from God to start writing out-loud. Substack had been recommended to me by several people, including published authors. So here I am, writing out-loud.

Goals and Such

It’s one thing to confide my goals into people who will love me even if I never live up to them. It’s another to launch them into the abyss, via newsletter. But I’ve committed to doing this out-loud.

In 2026, I am working to;

1. Graduate with my bachelor’s in communication in May (And by the grace of God, I’m on track).

2. Attend at least on writer’s conference this summer, and meet five people active in the publishing industry, in any capacity.

3. Start pitching my novel, Love, Your Neighbor, to anyone who will listen. And finish its third draft!

4. Start building a platform, to spread word about my words.

It’s January right now, so I am feeling quite optimistic.

In the next five years, I am working to;

1. Publish my debut novel, independently or with a publisher.

2. Publish valuable content on Substack for paid subscribers.

3. Attend five writing conferences to continue making connections and refine my craft.

4. Grow my platform to 500 committed people.

Life Goal: Be a published author, who glorifies God through truth imbued in story.

If God’s backing me, I’ve got this in the bag. With plenty of hard work.

Please consider joining me on this journey if you value faith based fiction, brand-new writers, and learning the industry along with me! I’m terribly excited, though I am still afraid.

Until next time, go read something cool!

This month, I’m recommending Once a Queen by Sarah Arthur. See a Month In Books: January 2026 to see why! I will publish it the last day of the month (see, there’s that commitment I was talking about).

This post is 100% free of artificial intelligence.

One summer morning in 1995, a man opened a newspaper to read his favorite comic strip. He scanned the comics page to find Calvin and Hobbes by Bill Watterson and eagerly read it to see what Calvin is up to this time. Precocious and typically naughty Calvin excitedly tells his pet Tiger, Hobbes, that he has caught a butterfly! Hobbes responds with something that makes Calvin reconsider his capture, and, by the last panel, release the butterfly, allowing it to fly far away from him. When the man read this in the paper in 1995, he only thought that it was a charming story, though not as exciting as Calvin’s usual shenanigans. But that strip reflected its’ artist’s struggle between two values and tells a story arguing which value ought to triumph.

In the first panel, the audience meets Calvin, a little boy with cute proportions, dinner-roll-shaped feet, and spiky hair. Next to him stands Hobbes, his imaginary friend embodied in a real-life stuffed animal who is twice Calvin’s size with anthropomorphic qualities. For the sake of this analysis, it is key to recognize that, effectively, this story unfolds in Calvin’s own internal monologue. While the ink and paper show a conversation between two characters, it is well-known that Hobbes is a projection of Calvin’s mind. Thus, when Hobbes responds to Calvin’s excitement about catching a butterfly, it is really Calvin responding to his own actions. Hobbes says, “If people could put rainbows in zoos, they would” (Wilson). Hobbes exits in the following frame, while Calvin remains, pondering his butterfly. In this third panel, you can see this little boy grappling with two desires: the desire to have, hold, and own something beautiful at odds with the desire to let beautiful things be free. In the end, Calvin decides to let his butterfly go, accepting that it was never truly his.

The tension in this story is felt by the audience but was manifested on paper by an artist who felt this tension in his own career. Upon closer study, it is clear that Bill Watterson could not have seen this as a filler comic, just a cute idea to meet a deadline. He was living out the very tension present in the strip and used a story to express it. Walter Fisher provides a helpful framework for this idea through his Narrative Paradigm approach (Stoner 168). According to Fisher, humanity works out its values through story. Using his system, the values embodied by Watterson’s comic strip can be discussed further.

By Fisher’s definition, Bill Watterson is the “narrator” of this strip, the person “showing” the story to the audience. He is not acting as a character in the story itself but helps us witness the story with his artwork. Watterson’s role in this “showing” is important because of his “setting.” Typically, the “setting” of the author would be handled as rhetorical context. One rhetorical scholar notes that in Fisher’s system, rhetorical context and setting are not the same (Stoner 170). But Bill Watterson is the author and narrator in this case, and the story that he narrates is an internal monologue of a little boy, pure thought and wondering. If these thoughts are the same as Watterson’s, the narrator, then the setting (or context) of the narrator proves to be just as important as the setting of the comic strip. As far as the comic strip is concerned, the setting appears to be an outdoor location in suburban America. This does not help the audience to understand the text much more. Meanwhile, the setting of the narrator, Watterson, provides key insight into the meaning of the story Watterson tells.

The setting of this strip is the struggle of its author, manifested in the cute figures of an imaginary tiger and child. Watterson voiced this struggle during a commencement address in 1990, five years before the publication of this story, to his alma mater, Kenyon College (Wilson). In this talk, titled “Some Thoughts on the Real World by One who Glimpsed it and fled,” Watterson said, “It’s surprising how hard we’ll work when the work is done just for ourselves. And with all due respect to John Stuart Mill, maybe utilitarianism is overrated” (Wilson). He criticized making art for the sake of money and shared that he himself felt drained and unauthenticated by his licensing agreements. “As my comic strip became popular, the pressure to capitalize on that popularity increased to the point where I was spending almost as much time screaming at executives as drawing. Cartoon merchandising is a $12 billion a year industry, and the syndicate understandably wanted a piece of that pie. But the more I thought about what they wanted to do with my creation, the more inconsistent it seemed with the reasons I draw cartoons” (Wilson). Surrounded by eager graduates about to enter the work force, Watterson urged his audience to value art and beauty above money and success.

Watterson’s values in this address relate directly to the strip about releasing a butterfly. In his address, he talked about the tension he felt daily between selling his art, spreading it throughout the world through publications with a global reach, and having artistic freedom in his medium (Wilson). The values in the strip are the same. Calvin wants to hold on to his butterfly, to look at it and enjoy it for himself, but knows that he cannot restrain such a beautiful thing.

The connection between Watterson’s well-known dislike of “capturing” his art in publication contracts is seen more clearly when one examines the time period of this strip’s publication. This strip was featured in over 2,400 newspapers worldwide on June 15, 1995 (Watterson). Watterson accomplished this through a partnership with the Universal Press Syndicate. His lack of interest in giving up the right to his art made this relationship tense, and because of this, Watterson had to take long, frequent breaks from the strip (“Universal Press Syndicate”). These sabbaticals did not appease Watterson for long. One source notes that, in mid-1995, Bill Watterson finally withdrew from the professional relationship and chose to end his strip. He sent the Universal Press Syndicate a letter announcing his decision to end the strip on the last day of the year (“Universal Press Syndicate”). Remember, now, the date that the butterfly strip was published. The strip was seen by the public on June 15, 1995, within a few months of Watterson’s walkout.

Clearly, the themes expressed in the strip’s story were values at the forefront of Watterson’s mind as he made a monumental decision, giving up a lucrative agreement. The “characters,” Calvin and Hobbes, grapple with the same decision Watterson had to make. He saw himself, perhaps, holding his art in a jar, or even himself as a cartoonist, trapped. Through the “plot” of the strip, Calvin only requires a short moment to find that he should let the beautiful thing free. The same year, Watterson decided to set himself and his art free, to fly away from executive control and monetarily motivated deadlines. Watterson, then, introduced this tension in the strip and made an argument, through the story, of which value ought to win. He urged his audience to strive for freedom for the beautiful and seemed to have convinced himself to do so.

Now the audience is left to wonder if this story holds up in the real world. Are they compelled to agree with Watterson because of his endearing characters and art style, or is Watterson right in his reasoning? Fisher offers a framework by which to evaluate this story. The two qualifications for the soundness of the argument, are “narrative probability” and “narrative fidelity,” or coherence and correspondence (Stoner 171). Coherence asks if the story itself is logical and consistent, while correspondence asks how the messages in the story align with an ideal world. The story is coherent and is free of contradictions. The events unfold realistically and properly introduce the tension the author wished to convey. Even better, Watterson represents opposing opinions well, as the two values are manifested in an excited little boy and a free butterfly, two appealing characters. But how does this story hold up when compared to a non-cartoon world?

Correspondence asks if the values of the message should be supported, and even more importantly, what the consequences of the actions the values would prompt are comparable to the importance of the value. In the case of this strip, the question would be something like, “If the audience were to adopt these values and act on them, would the benefits following their actions outweigh the consequences?” Furthermore, correspondence asks if the values line up with reality and if they are “the ideal basis for human conduct” (Stoner 173). It asks, “Is Watterson’s opinion well-supported, and are the actions that flow from that opinion moral?”

They are. The value that the audience would adopt is the ideal for artistic freedom, and more broadly, allowing beautiful things to fly freely. The audience understands that, while it is possible to capture and monetize things like art or butterflies, it is better to let these things freely soar to their natural potential. If all art were to be for the benefit of large corporations, then it would be manufactured, artificial, and devoid of true meaning. When freedom is allowed, art can become one of the most beautiful and distinguishing parts of humanity. This can, of course, be taken too far. Some might argue that if artists are left too free, they may break down art into something ugly and destructive. But Watterson is not fighting for the desecration of definition and beauty, but for the de-monetization of beauty. He sees art and artists as butterflies, who, when trapped, are only good for producing goods to sell. He fights for the nature of art and artists that express the real part of themselves and humanity, when allowed to. He does not beg his audience to free beautiful things so they can become ugly if they want, but to free them because they are beautiful. Letting beautiful things overrun this world is, no doubt, ideal human behavior.

This strip was a part of Watterson’s struggle between selling his art and making beautiful things and tells a story about the triumph of beauty over worldly success. He found, through story, that art cannot be made simply to sell, and an artist should not be trapped. He demonstrates bravery only an artist can have; he gave up monetary success because he understood that the successful artist is not rich, but a free artist.

Sources Cited

Stoner, Mark. Making Sense of Messages: A Critical Apprenticeship in Rhetorical Criticism. Routledge, 2020.

“Universal Press Syndicate.” The Calvin and Hobbes Wiki, Fandom, Inc., 2020, calvinandhobbes.fandom.com/wiki/Universal_Press_Syndicate#:~:text=Despite%20this%20second%20extended%20break,Universal%20Press%20Syndicate%20Corporate%20Site.

Watterson, Bill. Calvin and Hobbes Sunday Pages: 1985-1995. Andrews McMeel Publishing, in Cooperation with the Ohio State University Cartoon Research Library, 2001.

Wilson, Paul. “Calvin & Hobbes and the Meaning of Life.” Paul L. Wilson, 31 Mar. 2022, plw.me/calvin-hobbes-and-the-meaning-of-life/.

For all my effort, all my care, I could not save him.

The beloved one is dead.

This death was unnecessary, preventable.

He could have stopped it.

Did my brother not earn his life, for how he served Him?

But, as I watch the beloved one

disappear behind rock,

I remember.

“I am here to put everything to right . . . Just give me a moment, every moment.”

Everything will be righted, even this.

When He comes to mourn the beloved one, I go to Him.

I will see my beloved again, through this Man.

He who, separate from anything I can do, will put everything to right.

Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live. And whoever lives and believes in Me shall never die. Do you believe this?” [Martha] said to Him, “Yes, Lord, I believe that You are the Christ, the Son of God, who is to come into the world.” – John 11:25-27

Art Credit; The Raising of Lazarus: Small Plate,1642 by Rembrandt van Rijn

Lord, just give me a moment,

I am preparing a place for you.

It’s not quite ready yet, I’ve got many necessary things to do.

I have to wash

The blankets and fold

The clothes and tidy

The house and cook

The food and serve

You as much as I can, until everything is put to right.

My child, I am here to put everything to right,

To feed the hungry,

To clothe the naked,

To wash away sins.

Daughter, the only necessary action is my death,

And I have a place ready for you, here, at my feet.

Daughter, just give me a moment, every moment.

The Work is done.

Art Credit: The Kitchen 1858, by James McNeill Whistler

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• 1. A typewriter, probably

• 2. Field trips, lots

• 3. Little self-loathing

• 4. Little self-worshipping

• 5. Coffee and tea at hand

• 6. Time

• 7. Headaches from eye strain

• 8. Sore neck + back

• 9. Insomnia

• 10. Little TV, more cinema

• 11. Whimsy

• 12. Spring

• 13. Flowers

• 14. Sunlight

• 15. Long walks

• 16. True love

• 17. Bluetooth, noise-cancelling ear buds

• 18. Long skirts or picnic baskets

• 19. Water, drinkable, swimmable

• 20. Silence

• 21. Noise

• 22. Busyness

• 23. People

• 24. Solitude

• 25. An old Bible

• 26. Dried up or inky pens

• 27. Paints

• 28. Babies’ laughter

• 29. Cooling fan

• 30. Houseplants

• 31. Books, old, audio, crisp

• 32. Spending money

• 33. Ice cream

• 34. Coconut oil

Such things are not required, but rather, are an indication of a greater truth. Writers should remember that writing isn’t about the things, object, or items you can obtain with it. Writing is about spying hope and beauty in the world, and translating it so others can see it too. I think I picked these things because they whispered grace and beauty to me. What whispers to you?

These days, I cannot make it through a single church greeting time without being asked, “So, what will you do after graduation?” (at least no one is asking, “how’s married life?” anymore!). Usually, when I give my answer, I feel like a small child saying they want to be a police officer, or a unicorn trainer, or a roller-skating server at Sonic. This feeling increases when everyone to whom I tell my goal smiles kindly, knowingly, patronizingly, and asks, “But, what will you do to make money?” These well-meaning acquaintances are projecting their idea of work onto me and what they think I ought to do with a college degree. But work is more significant than the paycheck I may receive every other Friday. Understanding this significance has changed the way I perceive work for the better.

“Work” itself is a slippery term. When I was five, work was this horrible thing called phonics practice, upon which I shed silent tears as my mother patiently coached me through every page. For the retirees I serve in my coffee shop, work is a reminder of an unpleasant past, though many also feel like they have little purpose since retirement. During my sophomore year, how I perceived work was influenced by Great Northern University professor Dr. Michael Kibbe, both in his classes and his podcast, Extreme Stewardship. I cite Dr. Kibbe here because of how his thinking has shaped my own thoughts, but the definition provided here is my own.

In this case, I define work as the path of resistance and productivity. “Resistance” encompasses the nature of work in that it is the opposite of rest. It requires effort and some amount of difficulty, whether the difficulty is pushing towards a new personal record at the gym or just getting out of bed. “Productivity” specifies that work must accomplish or improve something. Deliberately wrecking my car requires effort, but it is not a productive endeavor. Reading a wonderful work of fiction just for fun improves my mood and my mind, but it is in no way hard. Thus, the two aspects of work are resistance and productivity.

Another important specification is the reason we work in the first place. We do not work just so we have an answer to the question “So, what do you do for a living?” As Dr. Kibbe explores in Extreme Stewardship, the Bible makes it clear that we have been commissioned by God to do good work on this earth (Kibbe). Genesis one says, “God blessed them and said to them…fill the earth and subdue it. Rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky and over every living creature that moves on the ground” (NIV). “Subdue” does not mean twist creation into our image. Rather, to subdue is to steward creation, to improve it. Therefore, we work simply because we were built for it and because God told us to take care of creation.

Applying these principles to my present life is a daunting task. After all, I have been commissioned by the creator to work! I must answer to God. I must examine my day-to-day life and reflect on how I use my time for the kingdom. Overall, my work, whether I am a barista, writer, or house keeper, now allows me to work towards my greater goals and do things that I love, for things or people that I love. Furthermore, I would be proud to report to heaven about my daily effort.

This is quite different from how I used to perceive work, especially before my sophomore year. What I thought a day in my life might look like would begin with an early morning. I would be living alone, in a fancy studio apartment in some high-rise city. I would get up, go to a gym, and work out first thing. I would then go home to shower and get ready, with social-media-worthy products, outfit, and routine. I would leave before the sun had risen (looking spotless and professional), make a quick stop for coffee, and head to my office early on. I would be a public defense attorney, highly paid, highly respected. I had a clever idea that my workdays would be eight to twelve hours long and would consist of court hearings, research, client interviews, and networking to further my career. By the time I left work in the evening, either to go out to do some fun “adult thing” (whatever that meant at the time) or to go home for a quiet evening, the sun would be gone. I remember trying to imagine a husband and a family fitting into my busy schedule. Unable to do this, I resigned myself to a life of lonely success and achievement.

While one could argue that this workday fits my definition of work, it came with several false assumptions about what work is. I thought that working meant you had to do it all the time and make a lot of money doing it. This narrow definition would have led to a very lonely and unhealthy life. In this schedule, I had no time for housework, meals, cooking, friends, or even family. In short, I was not thinking of why I was supposed to be working in the first place.

In the future, I would like my day to be rhythmic, beautiful, and significant. I would like my writing to be my work. To maximize the effectiveness of this time of day, I will need to dedicate time to investing in myself. I do not mean an expensive vacation or a spa day, but rather to fill my mind and heart with things to write about. I will do this so that I will have a full mind and heart even after spilling them into my projects for hours a day. This thought comes from a letter C.S. Lewis wrote to an American schoolgirl, saying, “Write about what really interests you, whether it is real things or imaginary things, and nothing else…if you are interested only in writing you will never be a writer, because you will have nothing to write about” (qtd. in Schoolgirl).

While this is an ideal workday, I must also be patient with myself as I settle into a new routine. C.S. Lewis, speaking on why he dislikes typewriters, notes that “noise will destroy your sense of rhythm, which still needs years of training” (qtd. in Schoolgirl). To fall into a routine of work that is “rhythmic, beautiful, and significant,” as I said above, it will take years of training. Will this day I write about ever happen? Probably not. But what is enormously important is that I can give heaven a report about my earthly work for the glory of my creator. While no workday will be perfect, I know that I can always look to God’s glory and find fulfillment in even the worst of workdays.

This fulfillment I can achieve is evidence of the freedom that comes with a broader perspective of work. I am no longer bound to a life of an empty grind but am free to do all sorts of work beyond the scope of cultural expectation. Because of this perspective, I have more freedom to enjoy life. If we do not have a good perspective on what work is, our only option is a miserable or purposeless life. My perspective should be within the bounds of God’s commission. This perspective leaves me free to pursue God’s calling.

Niv Zondervan Study Bible: New International Version. Zondervan, 2015.

Kibbe, Michael. “Dr. Michael Kibbe Extreme Stewardship Podcast.” Extreme Stewardship, Apple Podcasts, 31 Aug. 2022, podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/extreme-stewardship/id1642571696.

“To a Schoolgirl in America: Writing Advice from C. S. Lewis.” Rabbit Room, 2017, https://www.rabbitroom.com/post/to-a-schoolgirl-in-america-writing-advice-from-c-s-lewis.

Image credit to sahvannahnargi on Pinterest, “De dorpstimmerman” by Tony Lodewijk George Offermans (1854-1911), theoldman1 on Pinterest

Venom

A rattlesnake’s bite is not fatal, if treated quickly. If treatment is refused, however, the victim becomes their own killer by way of self-neglect. They will experience symptoms of swelling and internal bleeding before eventual death. One wonders, then, why a human being would forgo treatment, as Al did for most of his adult life.

I: Swelling

Al combed the shelves of the dimly lit supermarket with his eyes. It was the store’s fault he couldn’t find the flour. Though they were behind sagging eyelids, his eyes should have been able to spot well-displayed flour. The ridiculous employees couldn’t muster up enough industrious behavior to serve a paying customer for five seconds. That god-forsaken dog sat panting on his haunches, watching his master struggle, lazy and unhelpful. Worthless. Al felt as though the walls of the store would close in on him and shackle him to this town. Even now, the exit seemed to shrink in the corner of his eye, eager to trap him and keep him in the supermarket.

The most beautiful, perfect bag of flour appeared before Al’s eyes even as he thought to flee. The lone sack was almost buried by packages of rice in a large bin. Al hurried towards it, the cords of tension that bound his chest breaking away. He had eyes only to see that glorious white bag.

The object of Al’s attention was abruptly concealed. A meaty, gnarled hand covered the bag just before Al could lay his own hand on it. The blue lettering that once read “FLOUR” on the bag was now just “F OU”. This hand, attached to some idiot, was holding on to that last bag of flour, the last thing standing between Al and escape. He would not allow it. Al looked up to glare, but all thoughts of challenging the hand’s owner flew away from him. Indeed, all thoughts of flour and groceries in general evaporated, replaced by the ever-growing aversion to this store and the town itself. Al swore.

Digger Hax glowered down at Al, his broad shoulders and massive hands clenching visibly at the sight of Al. “Levi Amos Almond” He stated.

Al’s full name impaled him through the head as if Digger had hefted a javelin at him. Al swore again, snatching his hand away. “Get away from me, Hax.”

“My pleasure.” Digger Hax replied, his lip curling. He removed his hand from the flour, wiped it pointedly on his grimy coveralls, and turned away.

Al stood where Digger Hax had left him, panting like the dog that still sat and watched its master. That god-forsaken dog should have ripped out Hax’s throat. Emptied of all resolve to finish his shopping, Al paid for the items in his cloth bag and left the store.

That god-forsaken dog kept pace with Al, trotting at his heels. As Al walked away from Digger Hax, he moved further from any thought of the man. He was going home to his castle in the air, to his perfect abode. Al had trekked from town to his home hundreds of times, and though he left home much less now, the journey home was still the same cleansing experience.

Al had built his home in the middle of nowhere, a perfect strategy in his fight for solitude. As a young man, he had never imagined anyone would join him in his oasis of isolation, but now he knew that the world had blessed him with a person to join him, care for him, and guard his fortress when he was away. Only for his wife, now, would he venture out into town. Even then, he hated leaving, because to leave meant risking a run-in with the Hax family.

II: Internal Bleeding

That god-forsaken dog was first to spot the green-grey house built in the middle of nowhere. It charged through Al’s legs, tripping Al and getting its paws crushed by Al’s heavy boots. It yipped with shock and Al laughed. Stupid, god-forsaken dog. Serves it right for tripping its master. The dog recovered and lurched forward again. It tore through golden grasses and sagebrush, ignoring the path to cover the shortest distance between master and home.

As his woman tended to an array of pots and pans at the stove, Al rearranged the items in their tiny pantry to fit the few items he’d brought home. The canned beans went on the top shelf, the apples in the fruit bowl, the garlic beside the apples in their netted sack. He approached histhe woman, setting two tomatoes on the countertop while planting a shaky kiss on her temple.

Al was her elder by several years, a tale that was told by the lines on his face. His woman’s skin was browned by the sun. The creases by her eyes showed that the sun shone out from her just as much as it shone down on her. Al watched her from the corner of his eye, adoring her busy hands and her quiet company.

His woman wordlessly motioned at the saucepan on the stove. Al took the pan from his wife and set it by the plastic bin they washed their dishes in. He basked in the glorious, easy silence that sat between the two of them. He knew his woman would soon begin to talk, and perhaps ruin this moment, but for now, she kept silent.

From pot to bowl, dinner steamed and wafted perfect scents to Al’s nostrils. Al carried the two bowls to the table, only to scurry back to the kitchen to gather the flatware he had forgotten. His woman raised her head from the blessing she had prayed over their food and watched Al savor the first mouthful of his dinner.

“There’s white cake for dessert. I’ll slice one of the apples for you to have with it.”

Al swallowed a warm mouthful. “Thank you.” He gazed down at his dinner, suddenly realizing he’d forgotten to buy flour. Had she run out? Instead of asking, Al shoveled more food into his mouth. Best leave it be.

“Thank you, you bought groceries today. I know you don’t care to dip into your savings.”

“I don’t mind it. It’s the fools in town I don’t wanna see.”

His woman didn’t smile. “You know I was a fool in town, once.”

“And I’m kind enough not to hold it against you.” Al remarked. His sass was rewarded with an annoyed look and a following silence.

When Al had been filled with his woman’s cooking, he leaned back in his chair. The chair creaked, but allowed him to stretch, as his stomach made room for an incoming slice of white cake. His woman stood in the kitchen, slicing an apple as promised. “I ran out of flour today. I was thankful you brought some home.”

Al froze, mid-stretch. He thought about letting the remark pass and handling her misconception tomorrow. That god-forsaken dog panted from under the table, gazing up at his master. Al imagined that its glassy gaze was reproachful. “I didn’t get any flour.”

His woman didn’t hear him right. “I know, I was saying I’m grateful.”

“I said I didn’t get flour.” Al responded irritably.

The woman turned away from the cutting board, knife in hand, to face Al. “Why wouldn’t you? Was there any?”

Al considered answering untruthfully, but why lie? He was terrible at it, and the woman was holding a knife. “There was flour.”

“What happened?” His wife turned back to her task.

Al wondered how best to explain the situation without encouraging more conversation about the matter. With an attempt at a casual air, he muttered, “Some other guy wanted the last sack, so I let him have it.”

The sound of chopping slowed. “You? Let him have it?” The woman wasn’t fooled. “Was it a Hax?”

Cursing silently, Al let forth an affirmative grunt.

“And you left the store without even remembering the flour.” The woman stated. “I’m surprised you brought anything home at all.” She set a dish of cake and fruit in front of Al and stood before him with her arms crossed.

Meekly biting into the cake, Al avoided her gaze. Here comes the question. That god-forsaken dog was still looking at him. Useless animal, couldn’t it bark or growl to distract her?

“What happened, Al?”

“I told you, woman. He wanted it.”

“Not the blasted flour, Al. What happened between you and those Hax people? Why can’t you talk to them? Why do you put your tail between your legs and run?”

Here it was. That old, worn-out question. “I ain’t talking about it, woman. You know I don’t talk about it,” Al mumbled. “it’s behind me, I’m not talking about it.”

“If whatever happened was behind you, you wouldn’t hide from it.”

“Shut up.” Al ordered. He heard his voice as it ripped something between him and the woman. He stood up, scowling down at her. “Settle down. I ain’t talking about that god-forsaken family, or if I had anything to do with them. The past is gone, and that’s that.”

He couldn’t stand that tremble on her lips, or the glassy layer over her eyes, or her ears turning pink. He couldn’t stand being there, talking to her about this. He should have fought for that flour. If he had fought, this quarrel would never have happened. He was a fool for ever going to town.

Al averted his eyes from the woman’s face and turned away. “I’m goin’ out.”

He strode to the front door, plucking his coat off its hook. The dog slunk through the door as he opened it. Al heard the woman’s muffled sob and stood for a moment in the doorframe. Then, nauseated, he stepped out into the golden light of sunset, slamming the door to silence the sound of the woman’s tears.

With the expression on the woman’s face still branded on his brain, Al slogged away from his house with heavy steps and a weighted brow. As he put distance between himself and the argument, his mind felt lighter, and his breath evened to match his steady pace. That god-forsaken dog, useless, slow, and sluggish, followed closely behind him. The stupid animal was only good for getting underfoot, but Al knew better than any other homesteader that having a dog with you can save your life. He had been saved by a dog before, and he knew he would be dumber than his dog to leave the safety of his house without bringing an animal. With coyotes, rattlesnakes, and hazards of the path outside, a dog was almost more necessary than the coat on his back.

Al moved deeper into the middle of nowhere. He knew he would turn around soon, as it was growing dark. He wouldn’t have to talk about Digger Hax when he came back. He would apologize, the woman would forgive him. She may remember to wonder about the Hax folks later, but for now, she would forget, and Al could rest. He sighed. As the land around him grew darker, a comfortable fog settled back around his memories of the past, and he was disturbed by them no more.

III: Death

Al spooned burning hot oatmeal into his mouth, buried in thoughts about the day ahead of him. He would not go to town today, as he didn’t yesterday, and he would not the day after. He would mend the chicken wire on the coop first, he decided. That god-forsaken dog should be enough to defend his chickens, but the animal only wanted to befriend everything around it, rather than protect its master’s property.

His woman stood over the bin filled with dishes, the smell of bleach filling the small house. Her hands were busy, but her mouth was shut like the entrance of an impenetrable castle. Al preferred this greatly to another spat over the past. His mind trailed away from his itinerary as he watched her shoulders bend over the dish bin. They strained against her sleeves, tensing with the work she was doing, and possibly the atmosphere of the house that morning.

The perfect silence was splintered apart when the woman opened her mouth. “Al, I need you to go run something to a church family’s home.”

Of course she wanted him to run to town. She would. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t, as she was someone who wanted to bring all issues to the surface, exposing everything and bringing up painful memories.

“It’s not in town, Al, so don’t get sour with me.”

Al sighed, his mind clearing. “I’ll go. They live in the country?”

“Yes, on the opposite side of town from us. You may go around town if you’d like.”

“I will.”

She continued, ignoring his response. “They just lost their father. He was a stubborn man, but a good man. He loved his family. They don’t quite know what to do without him, but I’m hoping a little warm soup will brighten up their day, even if only a little.”

His woman was kind. Al watched her profile as she turned to put dishes in the cupboard. Her nose curved neatly away from her face, still as perfect as it had been when he had first met her. “This is a family from your church?”

Al did not go to church with the woman. He enjoyed the crisp and unobstructed loneliness each time she left. When she returned, she usually brought something to bake for him, probably because she felt convicted to be nicer by the preaching. Al benefitted greatly from her weekly socializing at the church.

“It’s Digger Hax who’s died.” The woman stated, her tone measured and low. She looked at Al, her hands at her sides.

That woman. She never could let anything rest. Al stood up, his legs knocking into the wooden chair and sending it crashing to the floor. “Woman, you know better.” His words rumbled out of him, and he felt his shoulders inflate with his anger. He stepped forward. She had no right to ask him to go to the Hax home.

The woman retreated a step, her chest falling and rising rapidly.

Her fear filled Al with guilt and annoyance. What did she expect? He had told her, over and over, that he would have nothing to do with it. She just wouldn’t stop pushing. “Why? Why do you push them onto me? Why do you nag me, you worthless woman?!” His own voice sounded separate from his body as if another, stronger man was berating his wife.

“Al, please, I want to do something, they’re hurting—”

“They’re hurting?! They hurt, woman! They hurt me!” Al’s voice ripped through his house’s perfect atmosphere, and all because the woman kept pushing him. Her badgering was smothering him, and he just wanted her to— “Shut up!”

Her eyes glistened like stars, wet with fear. She cringed at his words, stepping backward once more. “Al, just forget it, please!”

She was on the ground, clutching at the place where Al’s hand had hit her face. She was fully crying now, choking, and gasping on rapid tears. Through her trembling fingers, Al saw a red mark.

“You forget it, woman. Like I told you to the f-first time.” Al gagged on his words, hating them and himself. He had to go. He had to leave this god-forsaken house, this god-forsaken woman, this perfect woman he’d just struck.

He turned away, fleeing towards the door, only wanting to get away from this damage. That god-forsaken dog stole out from under the table, trying to follow Al. It yelped as Al kicked it, and skidded away from him towards that woman. He needed to get out. He was out the door and rushing away from his now-broken kingdom in moments, rushing away from the crying woman and that god-forsaken, whimpering dog.

Everything was ruined now. Everything was broken. Al turned his back on that house, and that town, and most of all, the Hax’s. The world was against him, chasing him further into the middle of nowhere. When would he get far enough away that he wouldn’t have to think about these things ever again? When could it end? When could he have his paradise?

That god-forsaken family would always mar this land, his memories, and any place he went.

That woman would always force him to notice the scars Digger Hax and the Hax family had left. He was a fool for ever letting her into his life.

That god-forsaken dog would always be useless. That dog could never protect him from Digger Hax, or the secrets, or the prying. It could only sit and watch him. His boots bumped upon the earth. The sound reminded him of the noise they had made when they struck that dog.

He’d hit the woman. She had pushed him, but he had hit her.

Al slowed, his stormy thoughts settling enough for him to sort through his fragmented feelings. His woman only ever wanted Al to be happy. Her whole life revolved around making him or others happy. She just didn’t understand. She couldn’t. She wasn’t at fault. Al should not have hit her.

As he came to terms with this truth, he stopped in his tracks, and turned around. Al would go back home, lift her off the ground, and apologize. He would have a harder time getting past this, but she could move on. The woman, driven by religion, would always forgive Al. This could be fixed if Al admitted he had done wrong. He began to walk home.

Darkness settled easily on his surroundings, and Al thought about his home ahead. He was planning his apology, the words that would bury his wrongdoing.

He hadn’t yet found what he would say when he heard an ominous rattle.

Al pivoted on his heel, unsure of where to look. The rattling came from a snake, no doubt. The night air was hot and muggy, a comfortable place for such a threat.

He cast about for that god-forsaken dog but was reminded by his own heavy scuffling that he had kept the dog from coming with him. The worthless animal could have found the snake in seconds, but tonight Al was alone in the middle of nowhere. He backed up warily, only to sink his foot into a hole, tripping over himself and falling forward. The bones in his ankle snapped when he hit the ground, his foot unable to budge from the hole as he fell.

The snake stared at him, inches away from his face, its tongue flicking in and out of its mouth. The rattle on the end of its tail blurred as it arched its neck.

Its fangs were buried into his neck. He felt the sting, and a sudden warmth blossom from his neck—Al thought about that god-forsaken dog, the animal that couldn’t muster enough courage to follow him. He thought about Digger Hax and the Hax family, and his bitterness towards them intertwined itself with the rattlesnake venom, choking his life away.

The snake’s venom traveled through Al’s veins. His throat began to swell shut. Other stories may present the final moments of death as a time of reunion, patching up old quarrels, and forgiveness. But not all lives have happy endings. Al never found reconciliation with a Hax, or with that god-forsaken dog, or with his wife. Any thought or confession he may have had was cut short by his inability to breathe.

All of my content is 100% free of Artificial Intelligence.

Dread mounts. Oof. I need to puke.

What kind of person has an ego so insurmountable, that they believe can write and publish something that people will buy and take the time to read?

…me? Surely not.

Tolkien, Austen, King… now those are people who don’t need egos. They are just that good. They have interesting things to say. But they didn’t start that way.

Sure, they probably exhibited natural talent, but didn’t King get something along the lines of a thousand rejections?

Maybe I can mess it up. Perhaps I can say dumb things and dump them into the internet abyss, that never acknowledges yet never forgets.

I am twenty-one. Tolkien didn’t publish a book until he was forty-five.

I have plenty of time to fail.

Right now, I’m recommending On Writing by Stephen King.

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