There was a time when I was far younger I had a nice reservoir of patience.  The amount of patience I have had and its rate of decline is directly related to Children (God, I do love my son, but he was put on this Earth to test its limits and my daughter is a whole New experiment/test from the Lord!) and pressures of work.  Though, I know myself well enough to say it was not as vast as I would like to pretend it was in my youth.

While at work I have found a better balance of my patience and calm, exerting more control, it has diminished at home.  The counterbalance that has been shifting is unfair to my family, I believe.  My impatience is like a monster, and apparently there is barely any patience on reserve for getting this book published.  With both excitement and fear of the possible success, or failure, impatience has sunk its poisonous teeth into the marrow of my bones and begun sucking me dry of all vitality.  It’s funny, wanting to rush into seeing what part of my brain has already determined will be the thrashing and degradation to my efforts as a writer.  It must stem from what is experienced in childhood.  Such as that moment in time that seems to stretch with eternity of what your punishment will be, regardless of your guilt.  Part of you wants to go ahead and have the torturous punishment dealt, and another wishes to hide away in a dark closet, never to be found.  Yet, we all must bear the weight of our choices and accept the inevitable results.

What I hope and pray for in regards to the reaction of my book is the opposite, of course.  This is accompanied with knowing not everyone will Just Love my book, which is a fact.  It’s not a possible reality, but a plain fact.  I can live with that.  Obviously I know I’ll live through any possibility, but being dramatic adds a certain zest to life, doesn’t it?  It takes away the sting because what we imagine and what generally transpires have the uncanny ability to be polar opposites, never nearly as bad as we imagine. Certainly I know I am not the only one to imagine extreme cases which are both humorous and ominous, but always more humorous when considering the multitude of outcomes.  Laughing at ourselves is, to me at least, recognizing our flaws and embracing the potential for improvement.  And there is Always room for improvement-a beautiful prospect.