Writing a Novel is Like a Good Game of Golf, Both are in a Genre of Their Own

I’d have to say I’m passionate when it comes to writing, especially in the science fiction, fantasy and action adventure genres. I’ve published four novels, soon to finish the fifth and will return to number six, which has been patiently waiting for completion to come its way.

I’ve penned numerous short stories, write a weekly blog and a monthly newsletter. After all this work, the one thing I’ve never written about is golf.

Now I know that my last statement, in and of itself, seems a bit off kilter. You may even be thinking, what’s this guy talking about? This is where I need you to trust me and follow my logic; however, illogical it may seem.

I used to play this so-called, game of kings, though found it to be more of a throw your club, along with a cuss word or two. Hit an errant shot, followed by a cuss word or two. Reach the green in two and then four putt, followed by a string of cuss words and finally spending entirely too much time searching for lost golf balls with an occasional cuss word.

What you must remember, is all this fun comes after spending a small fortune on equipment and dozens upon dozens of little white balls.

What you really need to purchase, and so far I’ve been unable to find, is a golf swing.

When it Rains, Sometimes it Rains and Rains and Rains, Then it Pours

Even if I wanted to take a break from writing and go outside to play, it would be impossible. You see, I live in the Mid-Atlantic States about ninety miles from the coast. We have received thirty inches of rain this summer, with more in the forecast. I’ve always been fascinated by weather, and the wet season we’re experiencing is fraught with good and bad. The driveway is full of ruts and there is standing water in the back yard. The grass grows faster than we can cut it and the mold spores are off the charts.

When I weigh the good against the bad, there is no comparison. We have a bumper crop of fresh vegetables, surrounded by beautiful green trees and foliage. The water table hasn’t been this high in years. The items we reckoned as bad were nothing at all.  

 A bounty of water for all to use, made this summer’s rain a blessing.

Daddy’s Hand

As I write, I’m under a constant barrage of thoughts and ideas. This is much more a boon than a bane, giving me a plethora of notions to choose from for the short story, novel or whatever I happen to be penning at the time.

Occasionally, I’ll be blessed with a scenario, given to me for my comfort and enjoyment. I’d like to share with you the latest.

I’m just a little fella, not much more than a toddler, toddling down a dirt road. I’m barefoot, wearing khaki pants rolled up to my ankles. A tee shirt completes my ensemble. I am seen from the back moving as fast as my little legs will carry me. Laughter can be heard, cheerfully flowing from my mouth as I enjoy this romp down the dirt road.

My run comes to an abrupt halt with my feet tripping over one another sending me to the ground, a startled expression crossing my face.

Two hands reach down, pick me up and set me back on my feet. Once I see my benefactor, I squeal for joy. My Father God brushes the dirt from the front of my clothes, turns me around and does the same on my back. He kisses the top of my head, points me in the direction he wants me to go, and then lovingly pats my bottom, sending me on my way.

He watches over me through my entire life, picking me up, dusting me off and offering his guidance. I grow to know his son during my travels and experience a more abundant life until the dirt road ends. It’s then I begin to enjoy an unbelievable retirement plan.

Is Vacation Really a Vacation or Just Another Way to get Further Behind?

The strange thing about vacations is packing up a vehicle with all your stuff and driving many miles in order to take it to another place. The normal time period you will reside at this other place is a week. Considering you left on a Saturday, this means you will not return home until the following Saturday. More than likely, you have rented a house or condo and will be cooking all your meals. If you’re at the beach, you’ll swim, lay in the sun and possibly fish. After your seven days are up, you will re-pack all your stuff and drive many miles on the return voyage home. When you reach your abode, once again you will unpack your stuff and place it where it resides fifty-one weeks out of the year.

I bring this vacation scenario up because my assistant is taking one of these rituals this entire week. No matter how I have pleaded and cried for her to stay, she will have none of it. She is determined to take time off with her husband and leave me without a typist. What gives her the right to help me fifty-one weeks out of the year, and leave me to my own devices on the fifty-second? . . . Ahh, anyone that can put up with me for as long as she has, deserves a week away, but I am gonna miss her.