The following are selections from a journal I keep based on advice from John Berendt:

“Keep a diary, but don’t just list all the things you did during the day. Pick one incident and write it up as a brief vignette. Give it color, include quotes and dialogue, shape it like a story with a beginning, middle and end—as if it were a short story or an episode in a novel. It’s great practice. Do this while figuring out what you want to write a book about. The book may even emerge from within this running diary.”

December 2016:

I hate goodbyes. I hate the gut churning feeling they fill your stomach with. The heaving sobs. The fatigue that inevitably comes hand in hand.

I draw out the goodbye. I linger as long as I can, always clawing furiously at the mad hope I can stop time. That by my will alone I can change the future.

In the end, it is only a war cry screamed into the cold unforgiving void of the night sky.

That is the nature of grief of course.  The stupor that hangs around for days.  Not all goodbyes are this terrifying.

Last night was mild as farewells go. Gathered with the friends who helped hold the pieces of my sanity together, though they wouldn’t know it from the fake smiles I gave them. The truth always comes out in the end. I couldn’t keep up the facade and my situation finally overcame my ability to remain in this place.

And as we gathered one last time, in that time and in that space a brief glimpse of the infinite could be seen.

January 2017:

The sunlight is reflecting into the room from a chilly morning.  The trees still bare, peek in on our conversations.

Jovial, the mood in the break room was almost tangible.  It seemed an odd juxtaposition to the last job I had been in.  Happy people at the old job had not been the norm.


I’m struggling to find ideas for good short stories.  The lack of inspiration is gnawing at the back of my mind as if it’s an acid wearing away at the thoughts in my brain.  I’m lost, looking out at the stars as I walk under a misty moonlit sky.

I met my characters last year.  I could, should write some sort of meta-narrative short.  It really is surreal, meeting people who so well reflect the characters that have been in my head for so long.  Perhaps my reality is starting to crack?  Or perhaps I have unintentionally come across some universals of the human realm.

The stars are silent as the green eyes haunt my imagination, I shiver not only from the cold, but also in anticipation.