We are born with a certain word quotient. We die when we reach that quotient. Sad, but true. Some people have a lot to say, but this does not matter because their word quotient is very high. Others have little to say and this does matter because their word quotient is very low. This is not fair, but it’s true. And it does not matter how articulate or inarticulate one might be.

Me, I think I have a mid-range word quotient, although I cannot be sure. I do choose my words carefully, but I’m closing in on my limit. I used to not say much – my days were spent at home, and I didn’t converse with anyone. Now I am conversing a great deal; in fact, so much that my mouth often runs dry. Then I have to race through the desert to catch it. Har har.

I need to find a happy medium, which is one who will look at my horoscope and tell me what my future holds. I am curious. If anyone had told me a year ago that my book project (and it is mine) would be housed in the Eagle Hotel, I would have been relieved and incredulous. If anyone had told me two years ago that I’d be sending books to villages, I would have been incredulous. If anyone had told me three years ago that I’d become adept at finding appreciative readers for books, I would have been incredulous.

So no, I do not know what the future holds. And I suspect that if I read the Happy Medium’s report, I might not believe this. The same holds true if I conferred with an Unhappy Medium.

My career path has taken several twists and turns. I often think back about this. I never found what I wanted after getting out of school, a job as a feature writer on a mid-sized daily paper. I did have a job as the managing editor of what was then called Alaska Farm and Garden Magazine. This was short lived because the magazine finances were mismanaged. I next wanted a job teaching creative nonfiction writing at the college level. This never came to be because I had a Ph.D. in Composition Studies, which negated my MFA degree in Creative Nonfiction Writing. I next wanted to be a Level II Centered Riding Instructor, but the deck of cards seemed to be stacked against me.

I am not sure I wanted a volunteer position passing books on to appreciative readers. But it’s what I’m doing. Oddly enough, I don’t have the desire to now be a journalist, nor do I have the desire to again teach. And I’m not sure about being a riding instructor. It could be that my energy level is starting to wane. Or perhaps I know what the pitfalls of these varied professions might now be.

Ahh, but I have stories. Fortunately, there is no written, just a spoken, word quotient. The desire to write is still there.

Next: 267. 9/29/23: A Different Kind of Tired