Aside from the regular (and sometimes overwhelming) schedule of schoolwork, I’ve not jotted a single word in the interest of creative expression. For that, I suffer.

I’ve found that without regular practice, the words come more and more slowly. What once flowed so effortlessly from mind to page is now dam(n)ed by a genuine inability to compose a rational thought. I bleed each word - even now, which further dampens my motivation to continue with any real effort.

I’ve felt this way once before, and just as I reached the peak of my frustration, I stumbled upon the following advice:

Writers write. That’s what they do. If you’re not writing all the time, you forfeit the label. Not permanently. You can get it back, but it’s all about action, not intention. Everyone has a great novel, or even a great blog post, somewhere in them. The difference between those who do it and succeed and those who don’t is, yes, of course a matter of skill and talent, but also, maybe most important, a matter of effort.

- Jeff Green

Today as I reviewed this advice once more, I found myself  invigorated. Though my words may come with difficulty this evening, I am reminded of what I am capable of, and why I’ve devoted such time and effort into developing this craft.

With enough effort, I can do this.

That said, I will write every day. Some of it will be fiction.  Some of it will be random blogs. Most of it will be terrible - but I’m going to write it anyway.

Every day.

The next tasks ahead of me are A: Financial Aid, and B: Admittance to the School of Journalism. Both are important, and will require a bit of resolve on my part - but I approach them both with newfound feelings of confidence and determination.

I can do this.

I won’t digress into the institution’s individual ineptitudes, but it’s worth mentioning that I had never intended to return. In fact, this time last year I had recently been denied admission by the University of Iowa, and was forced to consider a very frightening reality - in order to make headway in my education, I had no other choice but to finish what I started at Scott.

In light of this discovery, I nearly surrendered. I nearly gave up on school all together, rather than attend Scott for another two semesters. The concept was so disheartening that I found myself on the verge of accepting the a life behind my desk at Tech Team.

But, here I am at the closure of said semesters - degree framed, packed, and ready to be mounted on the wall of my new apartment neighboring the University of Iowa.

I’ve been admitted - I did it.

My how things have changed.

In no particular order:

• I created, planned, and participated in an event that raised over $1000 for children’s hospitals.
• I left TechTeam, which was probably the smartest decision I’ve made since deciding to take the job with them in the first place.
• I’m a week away from my two year degree, and ready to start on my BA.
• With any luck, I’ll have my own place within 30 days.
• I’m host of a weekly gaming podcast, which I’ve helped develop from obscurity into a respectable show with a  modest listener base. More importantly, I create something every week.
• I’m in a relationship that makes me genuinely happy.
• I’ve lost a ton of weight, and managed to keep it off.

So… yeah. Things are going well. I feel like I’ve managed to climb my way out of a rut and get back up to speed again. I feel like I’m making progress.

I feel good.

“Love and Mathematics” is echoing in my mind as I sit here - exhausted, frigid, and restless. Before me lay the incomplete works of the past month, each title proceeded with a parentheticaled “Draft #” - as though to excuse their apparent flaws with an abbreviated “I’m not finished yet!”.

It seems appropriate then to proceed myself with that same moniker - “Draft”. I’ve spent my life quoting an imagined reservoir of potential energy, a limitless pool of possibilities from which I would acquire the resources necessary to achieve these goals I’ve set for myself. Each period of mediocrity is excused by the upcoming evolution - my emergence from the cocoon of normality.

Yet, here I sit.
Exhausted, Frigid.
Restless.

Anyway, perhaps I lack devotion, but I simply wasn’t willing to wade through the pharmaceutical offers, porn advertisements, and all around trash that had built up around the banks. As such, any comments made within the past two months has likely been overlooked. My apologies to those commenters with pulses.

Anyway, expect some cosmetic and functionality improvements in the upcoming weeks - as well as a draft or two if I ever get around to finishing them.

Two dollars and fifty cents - Such was the cost of the painting which glowed in forbidden neon tones and dared to call itself art. Its sharp pigments contrasted the bleached-white walls where it waited, framed and sheltered above the bed of the lonely girl.

You’ll find the lastest version of “Like Bricks”. The majority of the first half has been completely redone, though it carries the same purpose and theme. The second half is mostly a rehash of the initial draft with a few edits in flow and diction.

As always, all comments are much appreciated.
Let me know how this newest draft (namely the first half) compares to the last.