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 Each day feels new, and my memory of the one before is faint. I’m learning to adapt. |
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In September 2019, a seizure revealed a lime-sized meningioma pressed against my hippocampus—the part of the brain that governs memory and language. The doctors said it was benign, but benign didn’t mean harmless. Surgery removed the tumor, and three days later I opened my eyes to a new reality. I could walk, I could talk, but when I looked at my wife, her name was gone. I called her Precious—the only word I could find. A failure of memory, yet perhaps the truest name of all. Recovery has been less cure than re-calibration. Memory gaps are frequent. Conversations vanish. I had to relearn how to write, letter by halting letter. My days are scaffold by alarms, notes, and calendars. When people ask how I am, I don’t list symptoms or struggles. I simply say, “Seven Degrees Left of Center.” It’s not an answer—it’s who I’ve become. Note ▼ |
| These days, I find myself waking up earlier than I used to. People say it comes with age. If that's true, maybe I can make the most of these quiet mornings. Then again, I could be a grumpy cuss all day. The odds are like flipping a coin. |
| Decaf has always struck me as coffee’s polite cousin—the one who shows up to the party dressed right but leaves before anything fun happens. It looks like coffee, smells like coffee, even pretends to be coffee, but when it comes to the punchline… nothing. No spark. No buzz. Just brown water with good intentions. Like decaf, dreams without courage look promising but deliver nothing real. And that’s exactly what a dream without courage feels like. You can picture it, plan it, daydream it, even talk about it as if it’s already brewing. But unless you stir in courage—that jittery, heart-thumping, “oh no, I’m really doing this” kind of energy—it stays flat. Safe. Decaffeinated. Courage is the caffeine in every real dream. It’s the thing that takes you from imagining to moving, from someday to today. And yes, it might make you shaky. It might make your heart race. But it also wakes you up to your own life. But if you actually want your dream to carry you forward? Skip the decaf. Decide today—where can you add courage and take one bold step toward your dream? A dream without courage is just decaf. Don’t just imagine—choose boldness. Take action and taste the difference. |
| The bitter toast of coffee in the morning. I woke up hungry this morning. The coffee is that little extra. Time to review yesterday’s notes and see where today goes. |
| Here is my attempt at rewriting a third-person omniscient narrative in the third-person limited perspective. First 3rd person omniscient The night air was thick with the smell of rain-soaked asphalt, headlights smearing across the slick Oklahoma highway. Elena’s lungs burned as she ran, clutching the hoodie tighter around her thin frame. Her sneakers slapped the ground in a frantic rhythm. Behind her, far off but too close, a pair of headlights drifted along the county road like a predator’s eyes. She didn’t dare look back. Her hand pressed against the pocket of her hoodie where the flash drive dug into her ribs. The little piece of plastic was heavier than a brick, heavier than the years they had stolen from her. She kept moving. A green highway sign loomed out of the dark—"Wynnewood, 2 miles". The town’s lights shimmered faintly beyond the trees. She veered off the road, heart thudding, and cut through a field where the grass snagged her jeans. A barn light glowed in the distance. Beyond it, a low cinderblock building with a tilted sign: "Vance Auto Repair". Elena stumbled into the gravel lot, nearly tripping over a tire rim. The big doors were shut, but a strip of yellow light leaked from a side window. She pressed her face against the glass. Inside, a man bent over an engine block, sleeves rolled to his elbows, grease painting his hands. She pounded on the door before her brain could argue. The man straightened, frowning. He was tall, lean, maybe mid-forties, with dark hair silvered at the edges. His eyes, sharp and steel blue, cut through the glass. He opened the door a crack. “Shop’s closed.” Elena’s throat locked. Words refused to form. She stood there trembling, hoodie dripping rainwater onto the concrete. Same scene, different perspective. 3rd person limited Elena ran. Her sneakers slapped the wet highway, each step jolting up her legs. A horn blared in the dark, making her flinch and stumble sideways. A semi roared past, spraying her with cold water that soaked her clothes and stole her breath. Her chest lurched, heart pounding unevenly. She gasped, half sobbing, then forced herself to breathe and keep moving. The night pressed on her shoulders, thick with the smell of wet asphalt and exhaust. Rain plastered her hair and stung her face as she sprinted along the highway shoulder. Her lungs burned. Each step rattled her ribs. But she couldn’t stop, not with the panel van’s headlights still glowing in the distance—a warning that the man would come looking once the tire was changed. She hadn’t looked back since leaving the van. She didn’t dare; looking back slowed you down. The van had blown a front tire—loud as a gunshot. Caleb had cursed, pulling them near a service station, hands tight on the wheel while rain hammered the windshield. He hadn’t moved to fix it, not in the downpour, not with traffic slicing past. But once he did, he’d start hunting her. She had to be gone before then. Don’t think. Run. Her sneakers slapped the asphalt, water splashing with every step. The storm churned, low clouds glowing from the refinery lights. The smell of oil and pavement filled her nose. She wanted to run faster, but her body was reaching its limit. Pain shot through her shins. Her breath was ragged and uneven. She focused on distance, not speed. Just one mile between the service station and the intersection. She pictured the rust-striped sign with faded paint and the wide gravel lot where old pickups were parked. If she made it, she could knock on the steel door and hope it wasn’t locked. Her vision blurred as the rain stung her face. The panel van’s headlights faded, lost in the storm and darkness. Relief flickered in her chest, but it was brief and fragile. Keep running. The storm eased to drizzle. Puddles shone like shattered mirrors on the shoulder. Her shoes were soaked, squelching with each step. She pushed on, arms pumping weakly. When she saw the glow of a security light, tears blurred her sight again. The squat building crouched at the intersection’s corner, roof sagging, steel siding streaked with rust. A hand-painted sign read "Todd’s Auto & Diesel," one corner curling. The roll-up door was shut. No cars out front. Office windows black. She stumbled up the gravel apron—shoes sliding on wet rock. She reached the side service door. Her knuckles rapped the metal, weak at first, then harder. 'Please,' she whispered, her throat raw. 'Please, open.' The storm had left the world too quiet. Only her fists made a sound. The door clicked, its hinges groaning, as light spilled out. A man filled the frame—broad shoulders, work shirt stained. His eyes flicked from her drenched hair to her shaking arms, to the empty road. His mouth tightened. 'Shop’s closed.' The words hit like a slap. Her chest heaved; her breath was ragged. She could barely stand. Behind her, the road stretched black and endless. The storm’s aftertaste was sour. She shook her head, lips moving but no words coming. The man’s hand tightened on the door, ready to shut it. Elena’s vision tunneled. She forced her voice through her raw throat. 'Please.' One word, no strength for more. For a moment, she saw only his outline against the light, his eyes unreadable. Then he hesitated—a fraction of a second, but real. The rain hissed in the gravel. The panel van’s headlights were gone now, past the bend, but in her mind they still blazed, coming closer. She stood swaying in the doorway, heart pounding against her ribs, waiting for the man to decide if she lived or was sent back. I'm not sure I hit the mark. Drop me a note to let me know. |
| My story lost its appeal because I made numerous undocumented changes. These overwhelming adjustments turned a good story into a confusing one. This happened because I made too many changes too quickly without managing versions. Combined with my memory issues, it led to chaos. Despite this setback, I still like the story and will start over, almost from the beginning. I will fool myself into saying today is a version 2.0; hell, I don’t remember what I did yesterday anyway. Version 1.0 still exists, so all is not lost. Unfortunately, my writing style before the tumor was a pantser. Now I really need to learn how to be a plotter. Or at least find a middle ground somewhere between. |
| I spent all day yesterday working on a project. I wanted to learn 3rd Person Limited POV. Just as I was starting to understand the POV, it was time to quit for the day. That meant it was bedtime. Well, this morning, as usual, I remember working on something, but it's gone. I'm going to spend this morning reading my notes and researching 3rd Person Limited POV again till it sticks. |
| My mechanical keyboard clicks on. The sound isn’t steady, not like a metronome. My hands shake, my timing wavers, but the clicks still come. And each one is proof of progress. The rhythm is imperfect, but that makes it more honest. Every sound is a marker that thought has made it onto the page despite hesitation, despite difficulty. Each click carries weight: not just letters forming words, but effort overcoming resistance. Writing has never been about silence for me. The sound matters. It reminds me that words are real, physical things — crafted through touch, not just floating on a screen. For some, the clatter of keys is nostalgic. For me, it is proof. The keyboard clicks on, uneven but unstoppable. So do I. |
| My writing wrestles with complexity vs. simplicity: Simplicity has power. A clean sentence, one striking image, or a single line of dialogue can carry more punch than a page of ornate detail. Simplicity makes the work breathable and memorable. Hemingway leaned on this. Complexity has depth. Layered structure, subtext, interwoven perspectives, or shifting timelines create richness that sticks with a reader long after. Think Toni Morrison or David Mitchell. The trick isn’t to pick one—it’s to orchestrate the tension between them. - A story that’s all simplicity risks feeling thin. - A story that’s all complexity risks collapsing under its own weight. But if you pair them—clean prose delivering layered ideas, or a complex structure handled with deceptively simple language—you get writing that feels both accessible and profound. A better phrase: Simplicity is how you deliver. Complexity is what you deliver. |
| As I learn to use AI tools for writing. I have grown some respect. These are the three tools I have found most useful: Grammarly and ProWritingAid for editing grammar and spell checking. Part of my brain problem is the difficulty I have with communicating with my hands. Additionally, I have a short-term memory issue. ChatGPT is helping me stay focused. So, in fairness, I’m adding this note to my creations. Note ▼ |
| I spent this morning reviewing and correcting some posts. Sometimes I hit save too early. |
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