Results from the 24-hour writing contest, the second one I’ve entered, came back a failure. I didn’t even make the honorable mention list. Between my inability to win cheap writing contests, my insatiable need to NOT finish books I start, and the fact that my wife won’t even read my writing is leaving me feeling kinda, well, lousy.

I wonder if I’m suppose to write. I wonder if we are ‘suppose’ to do anything. Maybe we just are. There is no destiny. Just whether or not your dice roll comes up seven or four. I refuse to believe you win or lose based on your choices. If I choose to write, that doesn’t make me a good writer, does it? If I choose tomorrow to run for Congress, does that make me a politician?

Oddly, that was in no way cathartic.

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