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loving life on a hikeHappy Friday to all of you. Here are my thoughts as this week comes to an end.

It is 3:06 on a Thursday afternoon.  I am sitting in my writing studio (yes, I have a separate writing studio) which is located about thirty feet from the main house.  Since it is August the door of the studio is open and I’m reflecting on just how lucky I am.

Seven years ago I should have died.  I came damn close to drinking myself to death, and on November 16, 2006, I made the decision that I wanted to live.

Fast forward seven years and here I sit, a full time writer and a human being who is squeezing every ounce of enjoyment possible out of life.Train ride from Elbe to 018

The chicken pen is about fifteen feet from where I sit, and with the door open I can hear the little buggers squawking as they run to and fro.  One of our three dogs occasionally pokes his/her head in the door to see what I’m up to and to scope out any possible food handouts.  Birds are chirping and the sounds of the neighborhood are in the background, all providing a symphony for me as I struggle to find just the right words, just the right phrases, for a book I am working on.

Bev will be home soon and we’ll have dinner together, and then we will head for the track and do some interval training, and then back home to watch a movie and enjoy each other’s company.  Then off to bed, up tomorrow and the same scene, different day, will play out.

There is nothing extravagant about the descriptions I just shared with you.  It is a simple life I live with simple pleasures, and it will go unnoticed as the world continues to spin and seven billion other inhabitants of my bigger neighborhood go about their business.  I am merely a blip on the radar screen of history, a pimple on the butt of humanity, and when I am dead and gone few will notice, and the world will hardly be affected.writer's digest and chickens 002

Or will it be?

I happen to believe that every single one of us has a huge effect on society, but most of us are never aware of it.  We come in contact with tens of thousands of people during the time between messing our diapers at six days of age and messing our diapers at eighty-five years of age, and each person that we meet records a lasting impression of our visit to their lives.

When my time comes to take the final stroll down the road less traveled, I want to be remembered as a simple man who lived a simple life and treated others with love, compassion and respect.

If that happens I will have achieved that which I was born to do.

Have a wonderful weekend!


“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”