1891: interstice

Despite only taking about 40 hours of my time, work is having a large effect on operations here at the viaduct.

Some things are in flux. Don’t worry: It’s nothing bad. Now that I’m in a subsidiary of Corporate America™, I really can’t talk about it.

What I can say is that I’m on the verge of being a part of some major things, and there’s the matter of when things go into motion and which intermediate steps occur. All I know is that things are going to be different by the last few months of 2015 and it’s going to be fine.

In slightly related news, I finished my binge watch of Night Court. Technically.

I stopped at Season 8 because Season 9 occurred after initial word of cancellation. There was a lot of growth and change for the characters in Season 8 that made the season finale not the greatest but good enough.  I have mixed feelings about shows that go on for a while and never reach a resolution. I don’t like when everything is neatly concluded, because nothing is ever neatly concluded in real life. I also don’t like the we’re-assuming-another-season cliffhangers or there being no real stopping point, or at least a place to pause.

Season 8 was a place to pause.

Once I can get back into the file my novel’s in, so you can read the final form one day, you’ll see that the ending is a place to pause. Once upon a time, there was chapter that wound down all of the action. One day, I realized that I didn’t need to spell out what happened next. There are some cues and, if you come to love a character or eight, I want the reader to use those to paint their own scenes to conclude it.

There’s a passing reference in the novel (which has been a running gag of sorts in all the previous stories set in that universe) about one of the characters, Lorenzo, writing stories me writing stories about him. I made a “pact” with Lorenzo: Regardless of what ideas crop up about him at 30 or 40 or 80, I will not write a word about him beyond the end of the novel if he does the same with me.

I’ve joked about wanting to draw a giant chart of how all of my friends know each other. I’ve also called my life a bad Dickens novel or a sitcom with limited funding for casting because of the frequency of which people don’t get out of my life forever. Example: If someone from Jacksonville took a copy editor position she was offered, I would have had one person from every newsroom I’ve ever worked in with me in Charlottesville. I can at least say every Virginia newsroom.

And now, 2015. It looks like that’s the year I get to choose my own adventure. I’ll finally get some albatrosses from around my neck. The Changes About Which I Cannot Speak will be underway, so I’ll be back on one of the flagstones. The transition in the works is nothing compared to the quagmire I had to drag myself out of, literally in some cases,  at the end of my first term in Hopewell. This adventure shall be a true, unencumbered adventure like the ones I used to know.

But what happens here?

This site, namely this blog within this site, was supposed to be a record of senior year of college. I didn’t think about how to end it. Or when. I toyed with the idea several times in its first few years but it’s still here after 10 interesting years. When should it end? I mean, do I let it slow fade if and when it becomes a career liability? Do I stop at a major milestone like the birth of my firstborn? And why then? Is retirement the last entry? Did I miss the golden opportunity this past June 1?


I write for fun and profit. I’ve been doing this for a long time. (Although there are times that it doesn’t seem like it here because most of the entries are unedited first drafts and I had a period in which I rarely used commas because I find so many of them, regardless of being grammatically correct, to be unnecessary. But I digress.) Life isn’t like a sitcom, especially one that drags on into additional, meaningless seasons after the perfect moment to end it all passes. I’ve said a few times before that life is like a novel. I’ll know it when I’ll see it: A good place to stop.

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