The American Midwest is a flat, dry landscape offset by the occasional farm or tree line border between properties. Speed limit signs decorate the interstate as the lane lines stretch on for infinity. You can see the stars at night. Voluminous clouds skate through the expansive sky during the day. Now, we travel in enclosed metal caravans like our pioneering ancestors before us. Only now, instead of pilgrimaging to a new life, we’re traveling to visit Aunt June or compete in a regional softball tournament.
Opportunities meet you halfway. You need to work toward them so you're ready for whatever they ask of you. Jobs, promotions, college acceptances don't happen for no reason; they happen because you're qualified and proved yourself up to that point.
People have told me multiple times that I try to do too much and need to be patient for success. One, okay. I'll try. Two, why? Why do I need to pump the brakes on ambitions I have?
"You never thought about moving?" "And leave this view? Screwdriver." "Huh?" "Screwdriver. Please." "Shane, how many boards do we need?" "As many as this boat gives us."
I still have to read through my first draft of Harvest. It's been nearly three months since I finished it but I don't know where to start. The obvious answer is page one, however, I don't know what I'm looking for.