The official blogiversary date was a few days ago, but it seems to have slipped my mind–how ironic that the 11th year of this blog has had by far the most time for writing but also the least focus for it.

It’s been an eventful year; COVID and coups, Zoom and gloom, the overwhelming feeling of secular millenarianism. And yet, I have been privileged to be able to keep this blog another year, privileged to be in a secure enough position to devote time to it, privileged to have a ready source of power, shelter, and internet. If a blog can be said to be a barometer of fortunate chance ad privilege this is it.

When I started this writing, in 2010, my goal as clear. Use these daily entries to hone my edge and practice while preparing and submitting short stories and novels for traditional publication. A book in print, or a series of short stories in magazines, just like the author-heroes I revered–that was the ticket.

Now I wonder if, in 11 years and over 4000 daily drabbles, I might have inadvertently built the very thing I was looking for in a format I spurned. Amid all the typos and formatting errors is a literary journal, chronicling my thoughts and feelings through the medium of fiction. You can even trace some of my evolving beliefs, my attempts to better myself and banish regressive and fascist thoughts, if you dig hard enough.

Is it the perfect model of literary success I hoped for as a wet-behind-the-ears young man? No. Will it bring me fame, fortune, or even notoriety? Again, no. But it is an achievement, perhaps even a singular one. And as I sit here, grasping for meaning in an untethered age, perhaps that’s enough.

Enjoy the stories.