Admittably, I’ve been doing a terrible job of updating my blog on a consistent basis; rest assured, however, that my intention is to change this….

Now we’ll see if I actually do change it; in such a busy world, resolutions are difficult to pursue once made.

But I digress! To my utter relief, on August 31st, after writing 10,000 words in one day (my standing record), I completed a 50,000 word novel in a month. Needless to say, doing this has been one of the more exhausting things I’ve devoted my time to, but it’s been entirely worth it. I thank God that I have been blessed with such a wonderful opportunity!

There was one failure, though; I had determined, at the beginning of August, to only use one character throughout the entire novel. Though I initially kept up with this, I couldn’t persist; it was too difficult for me to write about a character’s thoughts and actions alone without any interaction with other characters. So, I DID add a few other characters; fortunately, though, I had significantly less than I usually do in a 50,000 word novel.

You might be asking, “Why did Ryan have to write 10,000 words in one day? Why did he spend an entire afternoon without food trying to finish something that no one would probably ever read? Why did he partake in a dying art? Why would he waste his time? Why? Why? Why?”

Lemony Snicket wrote an excellent NaNoWriMo pep-talk a few years back; its tone is decidedly pessimistic, but it gives you perspective on writing in general. The art that I’m practicing is an honorable and noble one that has been cherished for countless centuries; it is a true blessing to me, not only enabling me to use what I’ve learned (in history, literature, word-studies, etc.) in a practical way, but also giving me experience with a skill that I might very well earn my living with.

So, that’s the answer to why I even bother; because it’s a cherished thing. Because it is an old and venerated tradition. Because, in a world that is so busy and hectic, a little tranquility - sitting down to write a tale of love, good versus evil or political intrigue – can help one to truly “stop and smell the roses.” It’s something I love to do!

Thanks be to the Lord, Who allows us to do such wonderful things and blesses us with the gifts to do them!

In Christ,

Ryan

The logo for Camp NaNoWriMo

Well, there is one difference – you have thirty-one days in camp to finish your novel. But I don’t count that as a differentiation between the two competitions.

So, I’m excited, and I’ve finally been given an idea. John Sawatazky ov, who will also be participating in Camp, has challenged me to write a survival novel. That is, a boy is stranded in the wilderness, and must fight for his very existence against nature and all the dangers it engenders. As an additional condition to completing his challenge, I must refrain from using ANY supporting characters – the main protagonist must be the only person in the entire story.

He did offer me the right to use ONE supporting character if I deemed it necessary, and I’ll probably cling to that as my one lifeline to get through this next month, but I’ll try to refrain from using it unless the circumstances necessitate it. Suffice it to say that it will be a challenge either way

As I see it, I now have two strikes going against me as I enter into August:

1. The novel will be a survival story, and I’ve never written one of its kind before. There will be a LOT of research involved as I discover what one must do to hunt properly, prepare meat, start fires, construct tools and shelters, and fight against bitter cold (provided that the story is set in winter). There will assuredly be more elements than these involved, but I offer them just to give you an idea of how difficult it will be.

2. NO SUPPORTING CHARACTERS. This will be the most difficult challenge for me, as I’ve never written stories with just one character before. How I will fill eighty to ninety pages with a boy’s thoughts and actions as he essays to survive in difficult circumstances is unknown to me at present

BUT, I’m excited; perhaps more excited than I was last year. August will present plenty of arduous tasks for me to complete and a plethora of obstacles to surmount, but it will all serve to better me as a writer.

That, or it’ll crush me. I’ll leave up to you to conjecture which will occur :D

God bless!

In Christ,

Ryan

The National Novel Writing Month logo

You probably don’t understand a word I’m saying. Well, I’ll elucidate, of course; just have to get my thoughts into order before I begin.

NaNoWriMo stands for “National Novel Writing Month”, and is a November event where novelists all over the world write a novel (the criterion in this competition being fifty thousand words).  People from Africa, Europe, Australia, South America and the United States stretch their fingers over their keyboards

and set to writing masterpieces in a mere thirty days. Needless to say, this gives a participant an excellent sense of community, since you know that, everywhere else, people are suffering through writing 1,600 words a day just like you are….

I participated in this event last year and, with a lot of help from the Lord to get me up every morning at 6:30 to write, I managed to reach a novel one day before the deadline. Suffice it to say that I was VERY excited. It had been a long month, but it was all worth it in the end. I learned a great deal about writing itself, and about the rewards of persistence and dedication. Ecclesiastes 9:10a reads, “Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.” I couldn’t agree more

But it’s hard. Getting up early every morning, sitting down, and writing 1,600 words can be a difficult goal to achieve, especially when you’re exhausted from the previous day’s labors. But with a little help from God, and the willingness to persist, anything is possible through Him who gives you strength

Wish me luck! If you happen to be interested in participating this year, drop by www.nanowrimo.org; they’ve got plenty of information on the particulars of the competition, some articles of encouragement to writers embarking on the torturous journey of making a novel in a month, and plenty of tips for those determined to get involved.

In Christ,

Ryan

But they did. They met every single one of them, and it couldn’t have been better.

So, what more can I say, except that this was an excellent film?

There are reasons, though, of course. This final installment is brimming with brilliant lessons and desirable virtues: Love, sacrifice, friendship, loyalty, and the price that sometimes must be paid to defeat evil. These, and many more, are the backbone of the entire series, and came to fruition in the end of it all. It’s one of those beautiful things that you can barely describe that touches hearts and resonates within deep resovoirs within ourselves. There is truth in it – in love and friendship, as there is in good’s ultimate triumph over evil.

But, accolades asside, I really wanted to address all the criticism Harry Potter has been receiving of late. The constant accusation I’ve been hearing is that, “It’s entirely un-Christian” and, “It defies the Bible” and, “It advocates witchcraft and the occult”, and I’ll be the first to tell you that this is not true at all. I’ll quote first Charles Colson, a columnist for Christianity Today, who says, ” [The magic in Harry Potter is] purely mechanical, as opposed to occultic. That is, Harry and his friends cast spells, read crystal balls, and turn themselves into animals—but they don’t make contact with a supernatural world. [It's not] the kind of real-life witchcraft the Bible condemns.”

In other words, the Bible is talking about the sort of magic that requires you make contact with demons, and derive your power from them. In Harry Potter, nothing of the sort happens. It is a fantasy magic, just like that which is present in The Lord of the Rings and Chronicles of Narnia. I’ll bring one instance forward from the latter; the White Witch from The Chronicles of Narnia. Many Christians like this series, and there’s plenty of magic in it, both good and evil. Aslan talks about the “deep magic” that governs the land, and it is presented as good, since it’s on Aslan’s side; there is also the evil magic which Trumpkin the Dwarf tries to use to resurrect the White Witch with the blood of a Son of Adam – something which, consequently, Voldemort happens to do in Harry Potter as well, and he is one of the users of “dark magic” as described in the book. It’s the SAME thing.

“Good magic” is supported in Narnia and Harry Potter alike. “Bad magic” is denounced and rejected in the same manner. The “good magic” and “bad magic”, as above discussed, are the same things in both of the series. So, wouldn’t a novel that condemns “bad magic” (Harry Potter, in this case), just like it is condemned in a Christian novel (The Chronicles of Narnia, for example), be a Christian novel? I certainly don’t see why not.

So, why dislike Harry Potter? Because it wasn’t written by a Christian? Well, that isn’t a good reason at all. Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control are good no matter who writes about it, and there’s plenty of all the Fruits of the Spirit in the Harry Potter series. And, J.K. Rowling was, in fact, raised in a Scottish Episcopalian church, and includes Bible verses in her final book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. To be precise, “The last enemy that shall be conquered is death” and “Where your treasure lies, there will your heart be also”, both of which were inscribed as epitaphs on tombstones in the novel.

Another comparison I’ve seen used between real-world, demonic, un-Biblical magic, and fantasy magic is “invocational” versus “incantational”. Referencing wikipedia.org, John Granger, in his book Finding God in Harry Potter, puts it this way:

Wikipedia: “The American academic and Orthodox Christian writer John Granger has analyzed the literature in a positive light. Granger, a Christian classicist, has defended the books in his book, Looking for God in Harry Potter. Granger argues that the books do not promote the occult because none of the magic is based on summoning any sort of demon or spirit; he contrasts occult invocational magic (calling up spirit beings to do your bidding) with literature’s common incantational magic (saying a set phrase to use power from an unspecified source). Indeed, says Granger, the themes of love triumphing over death and choosing what is right instead of what is easy are very compatible with Christianity.”

And he’s right. The fact that the world has accepted these books – books that are filled with blatantly Christian elements: Love, sacrifice, friendship, loyalty – should be a comfort to all of us! It’s a truly remarkable and beautiful series, and I don’t believe that J.K. Rowling should be referred to as one of Satan’s advocates on earth – or criticised by saying that her books bear the mark of the king of darkness - because she writes books about virtues which God clearly upholds in His Word.

Philippians 4:8 says, “Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.”

Friendship in Harry Potter? Check. Sacrifice in Harry Potter? Check. Love in Harry Potter?

Check.

All excellent pure, right, lovely, and admirable, right? Well, all of them are in Harry Potter. If these really are Satanic books, how could LOVE be present, when God Himself is love? How could sacrifice be present, when Jesus was sacrificed to save us from our sins? How could friendship be present when the devil isn’t interested in a relationship, but our destruction and isolation from others?

So, I liked these movies, and will definitely watch them again, because they contain so many virtues that God Himself has declared to be good. I don’t expect to change anyone’s mind about them, though, as I am just one person in a war that has been raging over these stories since the first was written. I’m not going to make a difference. But I hope this makes you understand why I believe what I believe, and why so many Christians like this series: Love.

The most excellent way, right?

In Christ,

Ryan

Driver’s Ed has been the biggest culprit in depriving me of my opportunities to write. In the wee hours of the morning, I read it. From 10:00 AM-1:00 PM, I am taught it. From 1:00-4:00 – and other times – I drive it. From 9:00 PM-11:00 PM, I read it some more. And it’s been this way for two whole weeks, without end.

Don’t construe this wrongly, though! I thoroughly enjoyed it, and learned a great deal of things about the art of driving. It’s drained me, though, and I’ve had next to nothing in terms of energy this past week. This morning was the first morning this week that I’ve been able to sleep in!

Couple that with my church’s VBS, and you have one tired fifteen year old who needs a cup of ice water and a bed to lie down on for twelve hours…

But, now that this ado has passed, I can finally rest. I have not for one moment, though, regretted one day of the past two weeks. It was all good for me, and I enjoyed it. But, being a human, and being tusly limited by my physicality, I still need an extra few hours of sleep now and again. So, good night to you all!

In Christ,
Ryan

“I will not stand to hear such words uttered in my household!” Mrs. Williamson cried hysterically. The corner of her mouth twitched violently in the idiosyncratic way that it did when she was angry, and she continued, “Leave us, Nathaniel! You are not welcome here!”

“Mother, please, I -”

“There is nothing you can say to defend this man!”

“He does not need defending! What has he done wrong!”

A heavy silence followed. Mrs. Williamson’s breathing was loud and strained. Nathaniel’s eyes darted between Gardiner and Gardiner’s mother repeatedly, as if following the ball at a tennis match. The air was uncomfortably still awhile, before Mrs. Williamson said, having regained her composure, “We have every reason to hate these people. Do you know what they did to us, Gardiner?”

“Other than show us kindness, what?” Gardiner replied edgily.

“They murdered your youngest sister.”

“Francesca was not murdered, Mother! She still lives; I can go get her right now if you don’t believe me…”

“No. You had another sister. Her name was Emilia, and she was the most precious little girl I could have ever prayed to birth.” A tear slid down Mrs. Williamson’s cheek, and she closed her eyes, saying with difficulty, “He was an Italian assassin. He said the murder was to augment the honor of Italy, and that her screams were like the tunes of mellifluous lays to his ears. Since then, I have harbored an intense hatred for all Italians; they have shown me nothing but a desire to harm others for their own selfish gain, or to appease their motherland’s greed for additional ‘honor’.”

Gardiner’s mouth was slightly ajar, and Nathaniel’s face blushed red with shame. Another silence followed, more painful than the last, wherein no eyes made contact with others. After a time, though, Nathaniel turned to face Mrs. Williamson and said, “I will leave, then, for the shame of such an action, conducted on the behalf of my people, burdens my heart.” He pivoted on his heel and started to leave.

“Mother, how can you blame all of Italy for the actions of one man?” Gardiner asked, stealing several glances towards the departing figure of Nathaniel.

“I have my ways.”

“The assassin was only one man…”

“How can you argue for one of his kind, when they took your sister from you when she was barely three years old!”

“Nathaniel didn’t do it! I implore you, Mother; surmount your prejudice, and give him a chance! Extend your hand to a man in need. He has nothing! He needs love, sustenance and some clothes on his back. Give him that much!”

Mrs. Williamson’s eyes wandered to Nathaniel, whose figure was silhouetted in the dying sunlight. She sighed and mumbled, “Bring him in for dinner.”

“NATHANIEL!” Gardiner cried, and ran to retrieve the vagabond.

The evening passed pleasantly, and though Mrs. Williamson was loath to accept the newcomer, she found a place in her heart for him, and learned to love him in spite of his nationality. Nathaniel came by once every week after that first meal, and grew to know the Williamsons very well over the years. When he laid down upon his deathbed half a decade later, Mrs. Williamson never left his side, and inundated Nathaniel’s hand with many bitter tears as he closed his eyes and went, as the passing of a soft wind, to be with his Father in heaven forever.

THE END.

Gardiner was born to a destitute family in the tiny, fictional Italian village of Guadilla. His parents, however, were not Italian; in fact, they descended from Russo-French hybrids who had formed their own communistic society in between Austria and the Balkans. Needless to say, as this is not mentioned anywhere in history, their society did not last long, and they were compelled to flee to Italy, where they made a name for themselves in Guadilla. Though they prospered in this little village, the Williamson family disliked Italians immensely, and, albeit contributing to the society, were never fully assimilated into it, preferring to mingle as infrequently as possible with the locals. This mindset was passed on, inborn, to Gardiner, who learned to dislike Italian food intensely, and, by extension, Italians themselves.

One day, though, Gardiner met an old hermit who was wandering near Guadilla, with naught be a few rags on his back and a haversack over his shoulder. The decrepit old man, with a tousled beard, bald head, chiseled countenance, gray eyes, and a scar running diagonally across his face, said unto Gardiner: “I am Nathaniel. Would you do me the honor of giving me your name, young lad?”

“Gardiner,” Gardiner replied. “To what end are you striving, wandering in the wilderness outside of Guadilla?”

“I am a pariah, having been ostracized because of my appearance and impecuniousness,” Nathaniel replied. “I do not hope to achieve anything by meandering through the countryside, but find that having no goal avails me better than striving to meet one.”

“How so?” Gardiner said, for he was having difficulty comprehending Nathaniel’s words.

Nathaniel smiled and said, “Are you not destitute? Surely you should understand the mind of one who has nothing and knows nothing.”

“We were poor once, but are now well-to-do, for my father owns a steel company,” Gardiner responded. “I was too young; memory does not serve me in my youth.”

“Then I have no hope of impressing upon you the significance of wandering without an aim,” Nathaniel answered him, and turned to set off to the south. “Farewell.”

“Wait!” Gardiner cried, before Nathaniel had distanced himself more than ten feet from him. “Would you like to have supper with us?”

“Us?” Nathaniel inquired, pivoting on his heel and raising his bushy eyebrows.

“Me and my family, of course! My parents, my brother and my two sisters.”

“I would not be able to forgive myself if I intruded!” Nathaniel said, shaking his head  sadly. “Perhaps another time, when you have secured the sanction of your family…”

“Come now! They will not mind it, and I do not know when I will see you again. Follow me, Nathaniel!” And Gardiner started back towards the village. Reluctantly, Nathaniel followed.

As the sun descended into the western horizon in a brilliant conflagration of orange and purple, Gardiner and Nathaniel came to the footstep of the Williamson residence, whereupon Gardiner rapped lightly upon the door and said, “I am home, Mother!”

Mrs. Williamson came to the door immediately and opened it, her face brightening at the appearance of her affable son. “Hello, Gardiner! Come inside. I have prepared some wonderful non-Italian foods for dinner this evening, and I have a reason to believe that it will be a sumptuous, Italian-less, thoroughly enjoyable repast indeed!” Then, upon sight of the vagabond, her radiant face grew dark and forbidding, and she said, “Who is this squalid man, Gardiner.”

“This is Nathaniel,” Gardiner replied. “I asked him to join us for dinner this evening.”

“Your ancestry, Nathaniel?” Mrs. Williamson asked brusquely.

“Full-blooded Italian,” Nathaniel replied proudly, beaming amiably. “I wish to thank your son for his invitation to dinner this evening; I have never been called to such a meal, you see, and find the solicitude of others for my wellbeing to be touching and uplifting.”

“We do not accept Italians here,” Mrs. Williamson said, tightening her lips and knitting her thin brows.

The smile faded promptly from Nathaniel’s face. “I beg your pardon, ma’am; does my nationality offend you?”

“Indeed it does. I have never taken well to Italians.”

“Surely there can be exceptions, Mother,” Gardiner said pleadingly. “I do not like them either, but this one seems nice enough.”

“What aspect of Italians do you abhor, ma’am?” Nathaniel asked, attempting to keep his voice as pleasant as possible.

“Every part of them. Their mien, their detestable behavior, their inordinately immense collections of lima beans, and their Italian-ness! What more is there to be said?”

“Am I presumptuous, ma’am? Certainly not. Do I like lima beans? I despise them, actually. Am I being rude to you as we speak? I pray that I am not.”

“What have you to say for being Italian?” she asked sharply.

“That I cannot change. My blood shall be Italian until the day I die.”

“Then I cannot suffer your entrance into this house,” Mrs. Williamson replied. “I will not besmirch this lovely dwelling with Italian filth…”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mikhail lived under a rock in a hole. Needless to say, this did not afford him a pleasant view, nor did it facilitate happy living. Indeed, his life was rather depressing, and often he fell into states of melancholy and despair. His siblings – sisters and brothers alike – had died in a recent skirmish between his family and a rival family’s household, along with his parents and many of those people he had grown to love and adore. Now he was alone. He had dug a simple hideaway in the ground, rolled a stone over it, set torches along the interior, and proclaimed it “Home!”.

But it wasn’t home. It was a prison. A prison for his thoughts, a place to repress his sadness and let it fester a while longer, to leave his wounds exposed to the grime of his hovel and let them fester while he paid them no heed. It was a dwelling where every sorrow could be buried deep into his soul and left there to grow larger and larger. So long as it pained him not, he cared for it not. Little did he know that burying does not heal.

He had not seen the sunlight for weeks. He had prevailed upon himself to go out only when necessary to fill the room with oxygen, and to procure a month’s worth of viands for his meager meals. He tried to avoid others when he was out – drew his cloak over his head to obscure his face in shadow – but there were whispers everywhere he went, and he caught words like, “recluse” and “hermit” and “pariah”. He tried his best to remain insouciant to these, but “pariah” always got him, and he shed a tear whenever he heard it. “It isn’t right,” he grumbled to himself, whilst eating a stale carrot for dinner. “Folks ought to looking after the hurting, and not spurn them as if they’re lower than dirt. Don’t they know my sorrow?”

But they didn’t know his sorrow, and for that reason, the “creepy old man living under the rock” remained as infamous and notorious as ever. Soon, rumors started to spread about how he strangled little ones in the middle of the night – how he stole from the merchants attending to their business on the street. Before long, Mikhail wasn’t allowed into the town, and his food grew scarce. This brought him even greater sorrow, and he said to himself, in a low and quavering voice, “Wherefore have I incurred the opprobrium of shameful conduct, when I have not done anything to deserve reproof?”

Gradually, Mikhail grew sick. His food was running low, he could not leave his dwelling, and he remained inert for long periods of time, depression gnawing away at him in his inactivity. Seven days after being banished from the town, he fell upon his bed and could not rise. He closed his eyes and fell into a deep, troubled sleep, and in the dream that he subsequently had he wished many times that he could die and escape the torment of illness and solitude.

Then, he was awakened by a sound. The rock above him was moved aside, and a faint light gleamed in upon his dismal hole. He heard a muffled voice. “Is anyone down there?” It was sweet and kind, and called Mikhail out of his drowsiness instantly. He found strength in his legs again, and, heaving himself off of his rickety bed, went to the exit hole and looked out. There, just above, was a girl, clad in a white dress, with a benevolent smile on her face, radiant cheeks, a happy countenance, and a mane of golden-blonde hair. She reached out a hand to him and said, “Take it. I will lead you to a place where there is no sorrow, for the Lord loves you, and is calling you home.”

Mikhail reached out, and the girl took his hand. She led him up a flight of golden stairs to a gate in the clouds; magnificent, encrusted with jewels and guarded by two seraphs, flanking the entrance, attired in armor of the finest make. Those gates flew open, and Mikhail, every pain fading from his face, beheld the Living God, and fell into His embrace.

Upon the earth, no one was cognizant of Mikhail’s passing for a long time. He was a mere shadow, flitting hither and thither occasionally and then vanishing. He was nothing to anyone, and the villagers of the town heeded him not. One day, though, about a week after Mikhail had died, a young boy, of about thirteen, ran to the town hall and greeted the councilors with: “The old hermit is dead!”

The councilors laughed and the mayor said, “Is he? Finally! He has held on to life for far too long, boy. It is better that he is gone.”

“Shan’t we hold inter him as any corpse properly should be?”

“He does not deserve the honor. Let him remain in his hole; that shall be his grave for the rest of time.”

“Is there no sorrow among you for his passing?”

“Boy,” another councilor said, leaning forward and folding his hands, “we have other matters to attend to that must be discussed at once. This hermit is of little consequence to our current topic of discourse, and as such ought to be disregarded. There is no sorrow at all. He strangled children, boy, and stole food and items from the merchants. The despicable fellow deserved death, and we ought not to mourn him.”

The councilors bid the boy leave, and he did, but the boy never forgot that chiseled recluse who lived in the hole under the rock. “A sorry tale indeed,” he said once to his grandchildren. “That is why we feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and comfort the hurting, Frederick. Because God asks it of us, and because we ought to do it if we love our brothers. Remember that, dearest progeny. Remember.”

In Christ,

Ryan

A refreshing glass of water, consummated by the addition of ice cubes

If you’re reading this, you’ve obviously disregarded my exhortations. That’s both flattering and hurtful. The notion that you want to read this post as much as you do fills me with joy, but the idea that you do not trust me when I adjure you cuts me to the quick.

Not really, of course. The above is mostly filler. A blogger takes what he can get, eh?

I’ve recently started drinking a lot of ice water. For the most part, I’ve not thought much of water; it’s just a simple necessity, and not worthy of enjoyment or delight. Admittedly, imbibing it after working a few hours on a balmy day is pleasant, but at any other time, it’s just a tedious thing we do.

Putting ice in that glass, though, adds a new layer of refreshment to it that I hadn’t expected was possible for it to achieve. Now, I look forward to filling that vessel with some of those pleasantly chilly little cubes, and draining the liquid slowly as I go about whatever business to which I might be attending. I’m drinking one right now, actually.

Then there’s milk with ice.

Your countenance has probably assumed an expression of bemusement and bewilderment. Go ahead and check it in a mirror. I’ll wait.

You probably didn’t listen to that exhortation either. But that’s alright. I’m used to it.

Milk, attended with ice, is actually wonderful! After some sessions of golfing last summer, I would go over to my friend’s house and hang out with him for awhile. Whilst there, he introduced me to this strange compound, and I was instantly delighted with it. It was the perfect blend of flavor and coldness that relaxed me after several hours of sweating in the burning sun. Try it! I warn you, however, that if you let the ice melt, the milk will take on a disagreeably pungent flavor, and will be VERY unpleasant to drink. But you probably won’t heed that exhortation, so I shouldn’t've bothered giving it….

I jest. I jest.

In Christ,

Ryan

The paragraph written above can be set into the two categories which compose the title of this post: “Blogging Recreance” and “The Evils of Procrastination”. I’ll start with the latter.

One of the major causes of this lengthy lapse in blogging has been procrastination. “I’ll do it another day,” the blogger always says, and, inevitably, this “another day” turns into a week, which transforms, anon, into a month. This is the scourge of every writer. Procrastination is absolutely unacceptable, and the surmounting of it is essential to achieve if anyone ever wants to be prolific in prose.

Another one is “Blogging Recreance”. In other words, the fear that, when you sit down to write, no ideas will come to mind, and that if ideas do come, you will not be able to do them justice because you don’t know how to write them out as you envisaged them. In truth, however, you will never learn how to write these vague ideas if you don’t try and suffer through them. That’s something that I have to learn to do constantly, unhindered by my fear of not doing my subject justice. Just take a deep breath, close your eyes, shake your hands a little bit, relax, and get started. Whatever comes out might be rubbish, but rubbish begets greatness. No one starts out excellent. PRACTICE. PRACTICE. PRACTICE.

I am going to attempt, as amends for my misdeeds, to write fifteen blog posts this late afternoon and evening. Whether or not I will succeed is to be seen later on. I trust, however, that God shall take me where He will, and that, whatever happens, all shall be well in the end!

In Christ,

Ryan