I can't believe what I haven't written in here: I finished the rough draft of my novel! It ranks in at about 270 pages, thirty something chapters, and a lot of my time. I'm not allowed to start revising until the 24th, ten days to be exact, but when I do I'm very eager to get going on it. Any takers on being amongst the first group of reviewers?

Until I get to revise I will be working on another novel. It's a very odd piece and the formatting would be completely unacceptable to publishers, but it's something I've always wanted to do. It is actually my second, perhaps third even, attempt at this particular story. I also finished a few other drafts of short stories. Those are being sent out for peer editing rather than magazine submission as I'd hoped. Everything must be as great as it can be, especially in this economy. I'm willing to wait and make things perfect before jumping ahead. Though, secretly, I have set my own due date.

I've also finished reading a few more books. It's difficult to even remember what I had written on my list before because it's been so long. Still, I shall catch myself up with a few quick reviews and then continue to stay on track on this site.

            Silence, when unintended, is off-settling.  It’s the lack of conversation which nags for something, anything really, to fill the gap.  It’s the fear which echoes down the hall in an almost empty house, reminding the sole occupant just how alone they are.   It’s the moment where remembrances of a love lost are planned and contemplated.

            Silence, when planned, is calming.  People flock to enjoy it, even when they do not realize that is their intent.  It’s the car ride down a rainy street with only the thumping of the windshield wipers breaking away thoughts.  It is the library filled with student both eager and terrified of what lays before them.  It is the museum where beauty is appreciated by those who take the time out of their packed schedules.

The world is obsessed with love.  And why not be? We are all born into a moment of love.  Whether our conception is between total strangers or twenty year lovers; that moment is the most basic form of love.  So we are born from true love and naturally desire it immediately.  We want to suckle our mother’s nipple and know that she loves us, whining, diapers, and all.  We listen to fairy stories of happily ever after as children to increase our desire for love, and in college we experiment with the different forms love may take.  At some point which varies for most, and never comes for some, we decide to settle down and adapt our concepts of love to that seen on Leave it To Beaver, or today even on the Simpsons.  We have been told that everyman dies alone, but we yearn to grow old with someone and be the exception to the rule.  Love defines our lives, as we’ve been forced into such a notion and are bombarded by it until the moment we die.

                If love defines us than we can assume different roles as our experience with love develops and changes.  Familiar love can dissolve as unrequited love begins to consume us, and hopefully the eternal love with overcome all.  We can burn passionately until the winds of time blow the flame away, or a slow flicker can pass through the years until we are extinguished.  Some candles are never lit.

                The question remains: which is the best one can hope for?  The loves which fly through life exiting just as quickly as they entered can leave some of the best memories, and worse memories.  Those that linger as the days pass offer the comfort of knowledge and time, but harbor the most painful memories through the years.   When they leave the pain is worse than all the others for the dependence created and expectancy of the constant companion.  Those that never experience love never feel this pain.  They never feel the joy either.

                Perhaps love is not meant to be measured the same for each person.  Our feelings on love may be as different as our fingerprints.  We may all feel it, live it, want it, but discover that no two loves are alike.  Just as a painting brings forth varying opinions and emotions, so does love.  The adventurer may favor the fast fiery flings that mark his life permanently with their reckless abandon.   The misanthrope prefers a life of solace, finding no joy in the company of others, certainly non that would compare to his own.  Finally, the old woman with lots of cats desires a love that will last; remaining as loyal and comforting as the day it began.  Each person yearns for love, but how each experience it, prefer it, and cling to it is as different as the snowflakes flittering by on a winter’s day.