I’m writing again. I had planned for a respite but the stillness had me thinking it might fatally end my desire to write.

When I don’t write I read or watch lectures, listen to sermons, or consider the pontifications of my friends and deep thinkers. When I head down this path I usually get lost.

The classical philosophers are the most interesting for me. I’ve learned enough about their theories and fields to be completely confused as to who said what and why, but they’re all interesting to a point. A painting I found online depicts, to me, the whole of their thoughts, it’s called “One Crazy Dream.”

Then there are the materialists, the rationalists, and yes even the apologists. They all make me think when I stay awake long enough to complete a chapter. Some, of course, like C.S. Lewis, I devour like a grilled tomahawk ribeye and asparagus. I’ve read every book of his at least one time, many, dozens of times.

I read the classics too. Great Expectations, The Old Man in the Sea, Great Stories of J.R.R. Tolkien, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, etc. The moderns hardly compare, yet there are what seems like billions of perfectly well written completed works to read.

It’s not an uninteresting walk the paths of knowledge and fiction. Rather quite willingly I let them consume me. One rabbit trail leads to another. I read at least four books at a time, until I just stop; kinda like how Forrest Gump just stopped running;  I stop reading, then I write.

The point I’m failing miserably to make is that once I start reading I find it folly to write. I ask myself what subject, what fairy-tale, what doctrine has not been written that I could write better? None, I answer! And now, I mean presently. With the ease at which AI can expound upon a subject, philosophy, or even a biblical text, what can I contribute? I played football and got my head dinged I imagine surely one too many times. I’m not that bright! The whole concept of Little Ole Me writing something worth reading bothers me, until tonight that is. I got tired of reading and thinking about what others had to say.

I hurried to the Castle Church in Wittenberg, Germany, and nailed the notice to the door which said, “What is different about Bob is that his thoughts are mine.” Profound, right? How I garble my words, conceive my ideas, illustrate my thoughts, misspell a word or worse yet misuse or describe my despair as a retarded Neanderthal, all of this is still me (even more exciting are the times God speaks through me). What happens when I write is one magically energized neuron enthusiasticly fires and starts a baffling and oftentimes mind altering chain reaction, and words come out of it. (I just need to make sure it fires justly.) Some of what I write is ordered and some not so much. Some is well written and some my wife shakes her head and fist at; I usually dont post these concoctions.

Whatever makes me say anything at all always surprises me. I discovered I liked to write decades ago, it helps me organize my bananas. I hope this means a bit crazy is not bat crazy, it’s normal to speak up.