Counting my blessings

I have my share of demons, disappointments and regrets but at the same time my life is full of fond memories, work of which I'm proud, and rewarding relationships (though I've outlived most of them). In balance, the gods have looked down on me with favor more often than with scorn. Whenever I feel sorry for myself, it doesn't take me long to find someone with far more reason than I to complain. In this context, my complaints fall into two categories: childish ego tantrums and inevitable existential angst.

This morning I awoke with more than usual appreciation of my good fortunate. And given the state of the world, I don't mind having the abundance of my life behind me. In the present tense, I still feel productive and useful. What I don't feel is connected to the degree that I used to feel, part of the price of outliving most of the important people in my life, but I manage "as a loner" well enough.

I seem to enjoy teaching more than ever, including this term, which is good since I spend a lot of time at it. In my work, I'm finally back to writing prose with energy, though in the longer run I see myself moving away from prose toward more video projects. I hope I finish my Cold War novel before I abandon prose, however. But it feels like such a "genre" piece, an outside-in piece despite its autobiographical roots, I have a hard time sticking to it. The far less commercial, more existential story I'm working on now is what keeps my interest, inside-out writing instead of the reverse, writing as exploration as much as storytelling. The Europeans still do this often. Americans, if they do it, have a hard time placing it unless the writer made a reputation decades ago when "the literary novel" was more in fashion. However, I'm sure a good deal of amazing writing is hiding somewhere on a website that gets a dozen hits a month. One day someone is going to discover and champion the significant accomplishments of these hidden works. I may not be around to see my prediction come true.