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True lies and spilled ink...

There is a reason I keep writing stories. In fact, there are as many reasons as there are stories. Picasso said, “Art is a lie that makes us see the truth.” He could have said just as well, “Art is the truth that makes us see a lie.” I write fiction because in a story you can tell a truth that would get you shot at or run out of town if you dared say it for a fact. The truth is, facts can lie. In the mouths of politicians, they usually do. That something must be true because it is factual is a common misconception. That all myths are fantasy is another. A good story sheds more light in the world than a bad sermon. We need to read the Bible like we read the newspaper and read the newspaper like we read the Bible. In both, we see God at work between the lines. A short story is harder to write than a novel. Humans are never content to say only what is necessary. The trouble with happy endings is that they don’t convince us. Somehow, we don’t think we quite deserve them. If lif

The road home...

I’ve reached that age and stage where one becomes tempted to cultivate regret. I can think of countless foolish and hurtful acts, blind blunders and willful transgressions. I can imagine innumerable what ifs. If only I hadn’t done that. If only I’d chosen a wiser alternative, what might my life have been?

It wouldn’t have been the life I have now, certainly. Change any one of those elements of my past, and I would have been set on a different road entirely. I might never have met the woman who saved my life. I might never had come to this place where I’m more myself and at ease than in any other place on earth.

If your blessing has found you where you are, If you have at last arrived in the place where you belong, then own your wander, be glad and thankful for the road that brought you there, however steep or twisted the way might have been. The kindest road you'll ever walk is the one that brings you home...

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