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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. |
| This morning, I’m doubting whether I’m a real writer. I love framing the house. I’m less enthusiastic about painting the trim. In writing terms, I love drafting. Big ideas. Fast fingers. Characters talking over each other while my coffee is still too hot to drink. That part feels alive. Revision? Revision feels like reheating yesterday’s coffee and pretending it’s fresh. The story is out of my head. The walls are up. The roof is on. Now I’m supposed to sand corners and make sure the doors don’t stick. That’s when my brain wanders. “Maybe it’s not good enough.” “Maybe real writers enjoy this part.” “Maybe I should start something new.” Classic avoidance. And here’s the funny part: while I’m doubting whether I’ve learned the craft of finishing, I’m sitting here writing a blog post about it. Which is technically finishing something. I don’t hate polishing. I just don’t get the dopamine rush from it. Drafting is that first strong cup of coffee. Revision is the slow sip after it cools. Not flashy. Not dramatic. Just steady. Framing the house is fun. But if I want guests, I need to paint it too. And drink fresh coffee while I’m at it. |
| I was up early again this morning. Not because I had a plan. Just because I woke up and stayed there. Before the worries of the day take hold, there’s a small window where nothing is asking for attention yet. No noise. No urgency. Just quiet and a little room to stretch out mentally. Early mornings don’t promise answers. They just make space. After the brain tumor and the long recovery, thinking doesn’t happen on autopilot anymore. I have to ease into it. These mornings give me time to relax before the day clamps down, to let my thoughts wander around and see what still works. It’s not meditation, exactly. More like sitting still with a keyboard and waiting for the system to boot. And this morning, I can feel it. The gears are turning. Thoughts are lining up. Ideas are bumping into each other in useful ways. Nothing profound yet, but the engine’s running smooth. This feels like a good brain day. I like good brain days. I’ll take one whenever they show up. |
| This morning, somewhere between the first cup of coffee and the second, I realized I’m thinking ahead. The seven-year anniversary of my brain tumor is in September. I still have time before the calendar forces me to acknowledge it. But the thought showed up anyway. Seven years. At some point, I stopped calling it recent. I also stop calling it temporary. The changes don’t feel like an interruption anymore. They feel… installed. I used to think of it as being off course. A few degrees left of center. A drift I’d eventually correct if I just gave it enough time. Lately, I know that’s not true. The course didn’t bend and then straighten out. It changed. Permanently. And after seven years, it doesn’t feel off course at all. It feels like the course. That sounds heavier than it is. Time has a way of sanding things down. Not erasing them, just rounding the sharp edges so you stop catching yourself on them every time you move. Words still slip away. Threads still drop. I still reread things I wrote and think, where did that come from. But I also know how to move here now. I know where the blind spots are. I know which mornings need more coffee and fewer expectations. I know that showing up counts, even when the path doesn’t look like the one I started on. Seven years didn’t give me the old map back. It gave me a new one. |
| I’ve been thinking about permission lately. Not the official kind. The quieter version you give yourself when no one is watching. I don’t match the picture I had of a writer. I failed English 101 and 102 multiple times before I finally got my degrees. I can’t spell for sh*t. My typing is… tolerable on a good day. None of that looks impressive on paper. And yet, here I am. Writing anyway. There’s a myth that writers earn the title through struggle. Through pain, credentials, or some shared suffering that proves you belong. If the work doesn’t hurt enough, you must be doing it wrong. If it comes too easily, you must be cheating. I don’t feel that kind of struggle. The work feels quieter than that. It feels like thinking things through. Like returning to the same ideas and seeing them a little differently each time. Like sitting down early, before the day has opinions, and following a sentence to see where it goes. Sometimes I wonder if that ease disqualifies me. But then I notice what I actually do. I show up. I revise. I question my choices. I finish things. I come back the next day. Not because I have to, but because this is how my mind works now. Maybe being a writer isn’t about how clean the sentences are, or how fast the fingers move, or how many classes you passed the first time around. Maybe it’s just about the habit of paying attention, and the willingness to try again. I’m not making a declaration here. I’m not claiming mastery or authority. I’m just giving myself permission to keep going without apologizing for how it looks. |
| There are two thoughts keeping me company this morning. One is small. It’s the earliness of the day. I’m awake before the town, before the noise, before anyone needs anything from me. The coffee is good, maybe because it’s early, maybe because nothing has started asking questions yet. There’s a quiet peace in being up at this hour, and I’ll admit to a slightly smug appreciation of it. The other thought is not small at all. My niece is in the hospital with a serious brain injury. I don’t know what her journey is going to look like from here. There are too many unknowns right now. I do know what it’s like when the brain becomes unfamiliar territory. When life suddenly tilts and you’re not sure how far from center things are going to shift. My injury wasn’t as severe as what she’s facing. I’m not comparing. But there’s a kinship that comes from having walked part of that road. From knowing how much patience, grace, and strength it takes to relearn yourself when the map changes. This morning, I don’t have answers. I just have coffee, quiet, and a lot of hope aimed in her direction. I don’t have a large audience here. But if you’re reading this, I’m asking for prayers for my niece. For healing. For clarity for the doctors. For strength for her and for everyone who loves her. Every prayer counts. Truly. This is one of those moments that pulls life a little left of center. And all we can do is show up, breathe, and trust that support—seen and unseen—matters. Thank you for being part of that support today. |
| Saying it out loud still makes me smile. I stayed at the Flamingo Hotel & Casino, right in the heart of the Strip. Vegas was always right there. Lights, motion, sound, and people moving with purpose at all hours. Yet having a room to return to gave the whole trip a rhythm. Step out into spectacle. Step back into calm. That balance mattered more than I expected. One of the first experiences was O by Cirque du Soleil at the Bellagio. I knew it was famous, but fame does not explain what happens on that stage. Water becomes solid ground and then disappears again. Performers fall from impossible heights and vanish beneath the surface as if physics had politely stepped aside. It was graceful, controlled, and astonishingly beautiful. The audience sat quiet, not because it was subdued, but because everyone was afraid to break the spell. The High Roller offered a completely different kind of awe. Rising above the Strip, the noise fell away and the city revealed itself in full. From that height, Las Vegas felt deliberate and almost elegant. A glowing grid in the desert. I found myself lingering, letting the view settle in, knowing I would not see the city quite the same way again. The Grand Canyon tour was the longest day and the most profound. The bus ride eased the transition from city to desert, but the helicopter changed everything. Dropping below the rim of the Grand Canyon was a moment that reset my sense of scale. The canyon walls surrounded us, vast and ancient. Then came the boat ride along the Colorado River, quiet and steady, the sound of water echoing off stone that has stood for millions of years. It was not loud awe. It was deep awe. Walking onto the Grand Canyon Skywalk glass bridge demanded trust. There is no distraction there. Just you, the transparent floor, and the immense space below. It was breathtaking and humbling all at once. The stop at the Hoover Dam carried a different weight. Standing beside it, I felt the power of human determination. Concrete shaped by vision and effort, holding back a river in the middle of the desert. It was impossible not to respect what it represents. I ended the trip inside the Sphere, watching The Wizard of Oz. Calling it a movie does not quite fit. The story surrounded me, filled my entire field of view, and pulled me straight into a familiar world made new again. When Dorothy stepped into Oz, the color and scale were overwhelming in the best way. It felt nostalgic, immersive, and quietly emotional. When I finally headed home, I realized how rare this felt. I was not rushed. I was not disappointed. I was genuinely moved. I had seen beauty created by human hands, beauty shaped by nature, and moments where imagination and technology met perfectly. This was a successful trip. I truly enjoyed it. And I know it will stay with me for a long time. |
| The coffee is really good this morning. Which means my brain is awake enough to notice things it usually lets slide. It’s been a few days since my last blog entry. Not because I stopped writing, but because I’ve been buried in revisions. Same chapters. Same scenes. Same sentences, over and over. Somewhere between the second sip and the third reread, a dangerous thought showed up: Is my story getting stale? Turns out, I was asking the wrong question. Revision staleness is not the same thing as story staleness. A stale story stops moving. Characters stop choosing. Scenes exist just to connect other scenes. The pulse fades. That’s not what’s happening here. What I’m feeling is familiarity. I know this story too well because I built it. Of course it doesn’t surprise me anymore. I know the good lines before I get to them. I know where the tension spikes. That’s not a flaw in the story — it’s a side effect of living inside it for too long. Revisions are sneaky like that. The work starts to feel flat, not because it is, but because I’ve been staring at it in the same font, on the same screen, with the same cup of coffee. Okay, maybe not the coffee. The coffee is innocent in all this. The real danger isn’t a stale story. It’s me over-fixing it. Sanding down edges. Polishing the life right out of it. So today, instead of fixing the story, I’m paying attention to where I’m tired. Where stepping back might do more good than another pass with the red pen. Sometimes the best revision move is giving the story enough space to surprise me again. The coffee helped. And the story? It’s still breathing. |
| This morning’s writing didn’t start with a blank page. It started with coffee and a little curiosity. I’ve been tinkering with yWriter, the free writing software from Spacejock Software  . Not switching my life over to it. Not declaring it *the one true tool*. Just… poking at it. Clicking around. Seeing what happens when I treat my novel like a box of index cards instead of a scrolling document.And honestly? That alone was worth the time. yWriter doesn’t write for you. It doesn’t care about your metaphors or your coffee temperature. What it does care about is structure. Scenes. Characters. Which chapter belongs where. It asks questions like, *What is this scene doing?* and *Who’s in it?* Questions I already ask myself, but sometimes conveniently ignore. I didn’t discover anything revolutionary. No lightning bolt. No “this fixes everything” moment. What I found was a different angle to look at the same story. Like walking around a table instead of staring at it from one chair. That’s been a theme lately. Trying tools not to be saved by them, but to see what they reveal. Sometimes they show you a problem you didn’t want to admit you had. Sometimes they just confirm that, yes, you actually do know what you’re doing. Today, yWriter did the latter. Will I use it forever? No idea. Will I use it again? Probably. Because showing up isn’t always about producing words. Sometimes it’s about rearranging them. Sometimes it’s about learning a tool well enough to decide you don’t need it. Either way, the coffee was good, the curiosity was better, and the story is still moving forward. That counts as writing in my book.   |
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I’ve been waking up between 4:30 and 5 a.m. lately. I don’t remember deciding this was a good idea. I just know that once I’m awake, I’m awake. Lying in bed feels pointless, like waiting for permission that isn’t coming. So I get up. I start the coffee. I turn on the computer. I write things. Not important things. Just stuff like this. Words that don’t solve anything or reveal great truths. They exist mostly because I’m already sitting here. This isn’t writing in any grand sense. It’s practice. The kind that doesn’t look good or sound smart. The kind you don’t keep. It’s just showing up and moving your hands, even when nothing special happens. This morning I opened a new canister of coffee grounds. Fresh. Rich. It will easily be the best pot of the week. At least the coffee showed up prepared. |
| Rereading your own writing is strange. Most writers talk about wanting to read their work the way a stranger would, with fresh eyes and no memory of how it was made. Because of my brain damage, I sometimes get exactly that. I reread my own pages and genuinely think, What was I thinking? Not as criticism. Literally. The intention is gone. The struggle is gone. What’s left is the sentence on the page, sitting there like it belongs to someone else. In those moments, I get something close to a first-reader experience. It’s disorienting. It’s also kind of fascinating. Sometimes I’m confused by my own choices. Sometimes I laugh at a line I don’t remember writing. Occasionally, I surprise myself. The editor brain still shows up. Coffee helps. But every so often, the story unfolds without commentary, and I get to follow it instead of fix it. Rereading has become less about control and more about discovery. Not just of the story, but of the person who wrote it. And that, oddly enough, makes the reread worth doing. |
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