I’ve realized that these words fall on the ears of family and friends. I’m okay with that. I never expected an army of readers. Looking at the latest statistics of blogs, there are tens if not hundreds of millions of bloggers writing their daily thoughts. Mine are no different. I splatter them on a blue page and believe it is for my own sanity that I do this. It’s a rather depressing thought.

Occasionally, someone actually reads these words. It’s usually a family member and they’re sometimes moved (a bit to the left, I’d imagine) by some of my words. As Doolies likes to say, it’s like a little window where she can peek into my little head. I appreciate that I can say some of these things well. I don’t think I write much of value, but if you piece together my thirty-minute pieces, you begin to know me. Now, if only I was interesting, I’d really have something.

Of course, the real reason I write these musings is because I want to tell stories, and I’ve convinced myself that this is the first step. Well, not this part. This editorializing and musing about nothing, this isn’t the first step; it’s a first step toward the first step. My thought process was simple: if I sit down and write every day, eventually I’ll write story (like eat meat or sing song). Simple. It hasn’t happened exactly as planned. I’ve written a few stories, but they’ve been dull. After a reasonably good day yesterday, today was blah. I don’t have a headache, but I traded a clear head for low energy. As I mentioned a few days ago, I’m going to find a chunk of time where I am headache free and energy plenty. But that is not today.

I’m not expecting to have an epiphany writing this. I’m writing these words because in my blah state, these are all I’m thinking. I won’t try to bore you yet again with further thoughts on the story that wants to go nowhere and take its sweet time getting there.

Work has been sucking my creative juices. I’m enjoying what I do, but I find that when I’m done, I have little left. I’ve complained about this before. My mother suggested I save my writing for the weekends, since I usually have more to say then; or for when I travel, since then I always have more to say. That doesn’t help in my plan to be a better writer or write. This writing is fun. Notice the short sentences and small words. I’m rather proud of this uninteresting voice. Fun with small words. There, I’ve come up with the title. Now, I need to fill a few more paragraphs with fluff, and then I’ll call it a wasted day, at least on the writing front.

Maybe I should stop trying to tell stories. I’ve had this thought often. I wouldn’t stop writing, since I enjoy this writing thing; instead, I’d talk about something meaningful. Maybe make a difference in the world. World peace. Safe environment. Healthy whales. You know the important things. Who am I joking, that wouldn’t last. Instead, I’ll continue to suffer for my art, saying little and taking many words to tell you about how little I say.

I did write a few notes on that boring story before. As is my custom, I’ll share them. They’re as uninteresting as all the rest. Wake me when I tell a story. This other shit is boring the crap out of me.

Who is telling the story? A person from our time? A person from their time? There are two types of stories: the perspective is the difficult part. I want to share this wonderful world (which doesn’t exist) with the reader. But for them to understand it, the narrator needs to explain it so they would understand.

So many fucking questions and so little writing!

We meet Jake through his protégé, Cini. She’s starting her first day on a Planetship. Jake isn’t broken yet. He’s still optimistic that things will work out well. If it weren’t for the evil committees, they might. The failure to make decisions. The political doubletalk becomes the way of life. Nobody promises anything and nobody does anything. Pilots are not so much pilots and fixers. When something goes wrong, they need to be nearby in case a decision has to be made. A decision almost never has to be made, but what else would people do?

Starport Vandry. Even the name, Starport, was a misnomer. None of the Planetships that left from one hundred thirty miles above Zeitgeist left the solar system.