Writing Waves

I have been in rewrite mode, so pardon the absence. This last week I had one of those breakthrough moments where a person has the chance to go one way, taking the safe route, or go the other way and risk failure. I took the second path, and I think it worked.

Have you noticed that writing comes in waves? Sometimes you're riding along and things are great, and other times you feel as if you were dropped down never to be picked up again? That's when we have to take a breath and allow faith--whatever that might be to each person--to take over. You have to believe in your talent and hold firm. The times I had the most trouble writing resulted in some of my favorite work. If I had not allowed myself to fight through the difficulty, I might have given up indefinitely! At the moment, there is a three-year-old climbing all over me. Talk about tough writing conditions! And this before coffee . . .

Have a great writing day! Fight, believe, take risks.

Sunlight, Sunlight, Beautiful Sunlight

Need I say more? Let's face it, we all get a little cranky when the sun doesn't come out for over a week. It's almost as bad as not having coffee, or chocolate, or cookies! When I saw it today, it was like a scene from a romantic movie. "What--" gasp. "Do you see what I see? It's . . ." Faint.

I love you sun. Love. Love. Love. Please don't leave me again. I'll be good and not hide from you in July. Oh, just please come back to stay.

My freckles are singing with joy. My eyes are burning with delight. The sun has come and momma's gonna have it up tonight.

Night. Damn.

Superman

Okay, so now I'm obsessed with Superman. I watched the old 1978 movie with the kids last week and was surprised by how much I enjoyed it again. I've worn out all three Spiderman discs so it's nice to have a new superhero to dream over. Christopher Reeves was just perfect as Superman wasn't he? He was tall, thick, hooooooottttt. And he had that sort of nerdy gentleness which is so hard to find in the male species. When you think about everything that happened to Christopher in real life, and how he truly was a Superman in every way--both thought and action--well, it makes me a little weepy. What an inspiration!

Julia and Liam were so inspired by the movie that they fought over who got to wear Liam's Superman pajamas. I guess Julia won, because she wore it all day yesterday running back and forth through the hall on her tiptoes, cape flying behind in red flashes. Then last night, I walked into the bedroom and saw Liam in a dress and Julia in the Superman getup. Liam had lipstick all over his mouth and Julia was playing with his hair. I said, causally, and without alarm, "What're you guys doing?" She answered back, "Putting make-up on Liam." "Okay, carry on." They came out later and Julia said, "Liam is my girlfriend."

I think we can now safely say that my kids should be home-schooled.

Moving on. Superman had to endure wearing a brightly colored suit against the scrutiny of all evil forces. I can learn a lot from him and from the carefree plays of children who haven't yet been shamed into submission. I can be proud of the work I do and let others enjoy it, and not care if some people hate it. Flaws in my work may be like a bright colored suit, but they are only a surface problem and highly fixable. What is important is intent. My intent is to tell a story using every depth of every emotion I possess. It's also to be funny, to shed some wisdom, to touch someone. It's wonderful having that power. It makes me feel . . . super.

Survival

This morning I woke up convinced that I was the world's worst writer and should just give it all up. I even considered replacing writing with learning how to fold towels like they do in departments stores. A worthy lifetime goal, but not quite as satisfying. Man, was I depressed.

There's something that happens to a writer every once in a while where we lose our ability to think in a rational manner. Every word we write is like poison; every thought like the plague.

It started when I finally gained enough nerve to open my old manuscript and see what kind of drudge I sent out on that full request over a month ago. Yikes. Ouch! @#***?!! Mistake after mistake after hopelessly idiotic mistake. Now, I may not be a mind reader, but I can say this: the beautiful, wonderful agent that has my manuscript is in all likelihood going to send a rejection--if she sends anything at all--and I won't blame her one bit. It hurts, but that's life.

However, after a full day of depression and doubt, the old fighter came back and I am now dedicated to revision. I really, really love this book and the characters. I have a vision, and I have become a better writer--with many thanks to the sweet people who encourage me here. Thank you! I appreciate each of your well-wishes and support and I hope I can do the same for you.

So, no giving up today. Or tomorrow.

A Little Game

Last night before going to bed, I sat down and started clicking through some old Time Magazines I'd found online. I found one about a rising new star named Robert Redford dated February, 1969. A glorious full color picture of his face spanned the front cover, which I drooled at for a moment then slid past to read some old adverts. Julia came up behind me and, after seeing an ad showing a man in different stages of gradual hair dying, started a game called, Which man will I marry?

"Not that one," she said, pointing to the man pre-hair dye. "Not that one," she continued, pointing to the other pictures of him in his chemically enhanced follicle progress. I waited for her to say that she would marry the final man in the picture--the same one in the beginning but with darker, glossy hair. Apparently she didn't like the way he looked, despite his doing so much to please her; money all spent on dye and nice-looking suit.

"What about this guy?" I asked, sliding the page up to show Robert Redford.

"Sure!" She caroled out without a pause, eyes wide in sudden adoration. "I'd marry him."

"I'd marry him too! I mean--if I wasn't married to your father already. Which I am, because I love him." Oh pooh, it's no fun having to be a mom sometimes.

She stared at me, not blinking.

"What? It's Robert Redford, geez! Go to bed already." I gave her a kiss before she walked away, nuzzling her sweet little nose with mine.

Here's the magazine if you want to see for yourself. http://books.google.com/books?id=Y1AEAAAAMBAJ&printsec=frontcover#v=onepage&q=&f=false

The Patient Cat

Yesterday I cooked up a whole buffet of wholesome treats, the main course being a chicken. All afternoon my black Himalayan mix stayed close, hugging the counters, sitting perched atop countertops, tall chairs--anything that would allow her to witness the wonderful spectacle of roasted fowl in action. She started to do that strange tick which all cats do upon coming across bird; her whiskers twitched and her eyes remained glued to object.

"It's dead, cat, and your not getting any until waaaaaaay later. Give up now."

"Meow." It was a quiet omission, which, in English meant, "Yeah, right."

She watched as I washed the carcass, then dried it off and rubbed butter along its jaundice skin.

"Not getting any."

"Meow."

She watched as I sprinkled herbs and spices, then drizzled olive oil and Worcestershire.

"None."

"Meow."

I opened the oven door and slowly shoved the pan inside, and with a dramatic blow to her plans, shut the door with a smug look thrown into her direction. I left the room with my last sight being that of black fluff standing next to the oven in perfect composure. Each time I came back to baste, she remained in the same state: spine-straight and spirit full of assurance.

Dinner came and the family sat down to eat with Wheel of Fortune on in the background. I doled out the plates heaped with freshly baked bread, potatoes and gravy, salad and tender sliced chicken. She started the rounds. Sneak under the table, get up by way of kid's craft bench and then sit on farthest southern corner in a flat, stealth-like position. A pair of hands grab her and she is down. Up again. Down again. Up again, this time Julia does the honor and puts her on the floor. Up again.

"I know this one, it's . . . it's . . ." grab her and put her outside on the back porch steps, "it's 'Don't do anything I wouldn't do!'" The contestant echoes my guess and Vanna turns all the letters to reveal phrase. "Oh man, I would have won ten grand!"

"Would have."

"Yeah, I know. Would have."

Dinner passes by and I began to clean up the table, tunes blasting on my iPod. Out of the corner of my vision, I saw a pair of slanted green eyes staring in at me, wind blowing her silky black hair around in gentle tufts. I heard a muted, "Meow."

When I opened the door, she stretched for a moment, then daintily stepped inside onto the linoleum.

"Purr, purr--did you save any for me?"

A plate was waiting on the floor by the stove, a pile of chicken just the right size for a fluffy cat with a tiny, but expandable belly. She didn't run to it, no, like any good respectable feline she walked slow with tail swishing behind in high-class swirls.

When she finished, she began the clean-up process starting with her ears: first the tips, then down, down all the way to the pads of her paws. I stood over her, arms crossed and face expectant.

"Was it good? I'm a great chef, right? Definitely worth the wait, I would say."

Without bothering to look up, she made her delayed response: a lilting omission with a hint of sarcasm at the end. "Meow."

That was English for, "It was a bit dry."

Struggling With Writing

If you're going to be a writer, then you are going to suffer the pain of lost inspiration or interruption of flow. Here is another suggestion I think might work for most of us poor word slaves: keep a fear journal. It can be plain paper, or a separate word document, but allow yourself to have a place to write down all your fears, so that you can face them. What is keeping you from writing? What are you avoiding? Have you run out of ideas, or are you just burnt out and need to refuel? I know I get really sick of myself; I'm a defeatist and have always come down hard on everything I do. Others say they love it, but I start rejecting it like a mother bird with a overactive sense of smell. I had to sit down and write some things out this morning in order to come here and write this, because my neurotic self had gotten the best of me and halted all simple ability to just produce. If you face the fear, you can move forward.

Writing is about being in love with your project. It, in the best stages, is literally like having a hot and heavy love affair with the characters, the words, the setting. The idea is to work past all fears and just allow yourself to enjoy the act, of, erm . . . it. Write out those fears so that you can get to the bliss. It's okay to let go and enjoy writing, it really is. And it's okay, to be proud of your work.

When will it become easy to write? Probably never. Fun, yes. Rewarding, yes. Easy, no. It'll never be easy. But then, neither is getting up every morning, or working, or being a parent, or anything else we do as humans. Just remember that the basic element of you being able to write, is you being able to find simple joy in what you are doing. Find the core desire--the elemental reason for doing what you do--and then do it without regret. Every time you write, you are a success because each session brings you closer to greatness in your craft. No one can call you a terrible writer because you are always evolving and learning. The only failure is the failure to try.

The Library

After the divorce Mom was forced to find a way to make a living, the savings from her New York airline days already long depleted. Her first stint was at the Russell Stover factory up in Kansas City which, let's face it, was the best job any kids could ever want their mother to have. She walked into the house every night with a butterscotch for each of us, and tales of having eaten endless chocolate all through the day. Bemoaning the fact of how much weight she was gaining, she kept working until she saw a position being offered right there in Spring Hill as the multi-service clerk for the library up on Main. She, giving us a glimpse of the fighter within, took on the city council to secure the position away from a long standing citizen--a man. The look on her face when she walked into the house that afternoon was of disbelief and pride. "I did it." She sunk down into the brown print love seat with her purse slumping alongside her feet. "They almost gave it to him, but I kept saying how much I loved books--that I had three kids at home, and they said I could have the job."

Of course, it makes sense that our car would die right before her first day. She'd have to make the long walk through town every morning and evening. No problem, she'd see us off to school and the walk would be good--get rid of all that chocolate she'd eaten.

Spring Hill was small, like a regular town minus everything. The library was nestled between an American Legion and a drugstore, each housed behind the fake storefronts faded, yet still remaining, from the days of old West. One of the stops on the way to Quatrill's infamous raid, the town had no other claim to celebrity other than the fact that one of its ancestors was a woman doctor, fitting perhaps for my mother who now would serve many duties in the town besides just checking out books. She would pass out Government staples, food, welfare, counsel. She would organize immunizations and children's programs. But most of all, she would sit and wait and . . . read. This is, for the most part, how I remember her: a paperback novel in her hands and radio playing tunes quietly from up on the metal file cabinet.

The library was miniscule, but fulfilled its need appropriately. There were no fines, but Mom was good at giving an evil look to those who were late with their returns. This kept the patrons in check, and I took note of it, sitting every day at one of the long wooden tables with a magazine laid out in front of me. Cheryl Tiegs was the hot model of the day with her golden hair and sparkling blue eyes. I had a notebook full of personal studies done in leaded lines that I strove to improve. If I could just perfect the lines of her nose so it wouldn't look so deformed. I applied shading, light pressure on the curves . . . still no success. But I was good at ears and eyes.

It was the time of girls struggling to reach equality, yet they still fought for position. Men stood out on the front sidewalk by the barbershop in different colored suits, like boastful roosters; their images mixing strangely with its peppermint swirl pole.

It was the time of change, not only for the world, but for me. Change in so many ways I cannot explain, yet can still feel as a thunderstorm sickens the sky and moves across plain land with aching and anticipation, then leaves; quiet, yet full of sorrow.

Waiting for the Word

I was sick yesterday: stomach pains, achey joints, fatigue. Needless to say, I didn't get much done in regards to writing. I spent a lot of time sitting on the couch, or in the bed, watching movies and reading twitter updates from agents who are seeming to be having way too much fun if you ask me. Just joking--I like that they're having fun. It means they are happy, jolly people who won't be thrashing at my manuscript in crazed madness if I ever send it out again. I'm still waiting to hear from an agent who requested a full over a month ago. Agency standards are to wait three months until checking-in. That's a long time to wait, but I'm not alone in this waiting game, so I'll deal. In the meantime, I am going to set up a web-site for the book, and continue writing the sequel.

Since my brain isn't in full working order, I will stop at this and wish everyone a happy week-end with tons of great writing.

Why Writers Write

This entry should be taken somewhat lightly, as I am speaking only for myself drawn from my own perspective; semi-hard earned. Writers, each of us, have something we are sensitive about, and so I wouldn't dare presume what another thinks or feels. All I can provide is a generalization of what I assume we all share concerning the art of sentence creation and the meanings within.

With the tragedy in Haiti unfolding in front of our faces via flashing screen or buzzing radio, I began to equate what place a writer has on this delicate place called earth. Some are relayers of information, and so would be the most important at the moment. Many are in the coals of the fire as we speak, uncovering horrific tales for us at home to process and respond to. This kind of writer would be the most important, as human should always know the suffering of other human. I see it as a call for compassion, and growth, but most of all, urgency; a child--any human, but especially children--should never be in pain or despair. If we record the events and find solutions, the child's pain will be fixed and life brought back into balance.

Other writers fill the need of protector and preserver of history. We need them, so that all the lessons of life will not be repeated without fair warning; centuries of man walking faithfully into its own folly, happy, blind, and with laughter toward result. Yes, we know it happened before, many times, and, like a roulette wheel, had various finales, yet the mean result tells us to beware. Man will never listen, but the warning was issued and held up with flashing lights. See? I wrote it down for you, embalmed like a brandy spiced raisin in a fruitcake. But you did it anyway. Fool. Human.

Then you have the other family of writers: the flailing shipwrecked crew that dream of becoming published authors. We create, we dream, we provide new life in the sorrow-filled reality of everyday existence. But why do we do it? The minute we've created something, we must spend the rest of eternity finding it a home. For most of us there is no money and no real fame beyond that of our local circle of supporters--if that. Many of us are rejected by the agents and the publishers, and are watching, like a child outside a candy store, others who were blessed enough to write well and create ingeniously. People trunk, people self-publish, people give up. So why? Why?

Well, with events going on such as the devastation in Haiti, it is a good time to remember exactly why. Because we are gifted, special people who can ease the pain of another person's suffering. This is why. Without promise of monetary gain or anything that comes along with that, we should write just because the world needs invention to lead it out of its despair. It needs ridiculous, unabashed fantasy based on reality, so that the real becomes infused with a little light called hope.

Whenever you sit down to write, or are thinking of doing it, remember there doesn't have to be a prize at the end. There only has to be joy in what you are doing. And that joy becomes another person's joy. The world needs you now more than ever. So, write.

Ogden's Nut Gone Flake

Small Faces is a band long forgotten in the scarf waving hands of time, their lead singer, Steve Marriott, buried years ago along with all the mod and psychedelia he touted so perfectly. He was small in stature, but possessed a voice of magnitude; huge presence, great musician and songwriter. When I went on a Youtube search looking for some tunes to keep me in writing mode, I found a song called Itchycoo Park and gave it a listen. I liked the lyrics and his sly way of singing and dancing around with no hint of reservation. Steve Marriott was truly a person born to be on stage.

Then I heard Tin Soldier. Blew my mind. The boy could sing! I started to do some serious Google research and found out that not only Led Zeppelin, but Jimmy Hendrix to countless others had been influenced by this wonderful fellow and his amazing well of talent.

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has certain requirements for the musicians they choose to induct into their certified Holy Grail of greatness, but their ignorance of Steve Marriott shows failure in the institution. You cannot deny what is good, and you cannot pass over influence and inspiration.

What makes a Rock and Roll legend? Someone with a voice of the gods, someone who can stop--do a pose two seconds before crashing into a guitar solo--and then swing his legs out in complete defiance of what should and shouldn't be, someone who writes what he feels, giving his whole life to the craft, someone whose guitar is his best mate. Someone who can give a person the chills four decades through time.

Surely Steve Marriott has met all of the requirements of a rock legend. And though it's not exactly necessary for us to see his name up on some wall to define what we already know, it would nice to see it happen anyway. For all those times he wrote instead of slept, and performed instead of prayed; his singing was a prayer, like a cricket on the last night of summer, fading out into the night without abandon. He deserves the recognition, and modern music needs to remember where it came from, so it can move forward in well measured paces.

http://www.petitionspot.com/petitions/stevemarriottrrhof/

Folks on the Hill

Up on the top corner of Franklin stood a one-story surrounded by a large yard with lilac bush out by the ditch. Every spring Mom made us kids sneak over there to steal armloads of blossoms; the bush was large enough that we were well-hidden, and our house smelled great for a few days, making it well worth the risk.

Eventually, the inhabitant--a widow--moved away, leaving the house open for a short time before a family of three moved in. A few glances out of our salmon-colored curtains showed two girls about the same age as Cathy and I, and a mother in faded bell bottoms. Her hair was scraggly; a cigarette dangling from her right hand as she watched the girls running around the yard. A couple of trips up the street on our bicycles allowed fate to connect us, and we found out the older girl's name was Rhonda. She had fluffy curls of honey blonde and a sweet disposition. Christy was not so well-behaved, with layered brown hair hanging over a face more boyish than we had noticed all the way across the street from behind smudged glass.

Mom said that the Therman's mom was a stripper—it was the only excuse for her late night leavings and early morning drives back home. This information only added to the mystery, drawing us closer to the chaos. Saturday afternoons would find us over at their old abandoned car, crawling all over its blue roof, sitting inside and pretending to steer through imagined streets far beyond our own not-yet-paved Franklin.

"Hey!" Christy popped her head in one cloudy afternoon, eyes wild. "You gotta come see what I found out in the back yard. A real live grizzly bear!" Her voice was as rough as granite, hands dirty from pulling indian grass out by the fence. She was the epitome of a tomboy, perhaps going one step father than perviously defined.

I looked at the steering wheel in front of me, and then my partner in the passenger seat: John Kennedy Jr., Spring Hill's wild child that I was secretly in love with, and in complete fear for my life. "Nah. I'm still driving." He was silent next to me; we never really talked.

"Oh come on! I killed it with my own two hands. I'll give you some licorice if you come with me."

I didn't want the licorice. If she actually possessed any, it was most likely half-chewed and covered with grime. But I said yes regardless, avoiding the incessant begging I knew was to come. When I crawled out of the open driver's side window, John slid over to my empty seat, pretending to rev the engine. He gave no good-bye glance or even hint that he was sorry for my departure. Long sand-colored hair hung over his face, hiding the eyes I was always too scared to look into.

Christy dragged me up the hill toward the south part of the back yard, stopping just past the broken sled she'd stolen from our yard and smashed apart with a big rock. Then she held her arms out and pretended to be holding a rifle. "You never can be too sure with these bears. He might have come back to life. Okay, I think it's safe! You step over there and I will go first just to make sure you're safe."

I watched her step ahead, then turned fast to check the front yard again. A new group of neighborhood kids had just arrived, ambushing the car John was still occupying. I recognized my brother and his group of boys--the oldest on the block. Then I saw my sister sitting with Rhonda by the ditch. They were always so quiet, sharing secrets I would never be allowed to know. We'd all heard the most important one: a late-night walk up the road with a boy in her former town, fresh pavement, new car with stealth tires. The boy was gone, leaving Rhonda behind with a crooked walk and memories she refused to speak of, yet which would not let her forget. Startled by accident, she would fall to the ground in a set of wretched screams. Christy had a lot of fun setting her older sister off into these flashbacks, while the rest of us stood back in horror.

"Hey! You're missing it. The bear just had a pack of babies. We can each take one home and raise them for the circus."

I turned to view the invisible scene, wishing I could somehow escape Christy's stupid games. She was always singling me out, asking me to pretend the most ludicrous things. If only she wanted to pretend something that had to do with being a girl, then perhaps I'd have more interest. As usual, I humored her just to move things along and get back to the car.

"Didn't you say it was dead? Whatever. I'll take the dark brown one."

"No, no. That one's mine. You can have the red cub that's missing a back paw."

"Sure, okay."

"Haha! We'll join the circus and live together for the rest of our lives." Christy was always saying weird things like that. It just figured no one in Spring Hill knew I existed, except for this one girl who thought she was a boy.

I had to get away. "My mom just waved through the window, she must need me. I'll see you later Christy!"

She grabbed my arm, holding me tight with those dirty, tanned fingers. "But you can't go. We have to raise the bears!"

I felt suffocated in her touch, wishing there was someway to tell her I just wanted to be alone. If only she knew of all the times I'd been trapped, scared, unable to speak loud or even dance in my own home. I just wanted to be free.

"No . . . I really gotta go. See ya later!" I ran back down the hill toward the abandoned car, frowning when I saw John was missing; his seat replaced by the loud throng of sixth-graders, including my brother, who refused to acknowledge my presence. Christy was yelling for me by the fence, but I kept walking, heading up the street in pursuit of something I couldn't put into words. A few blocks on and I saw him, standing at his front door, leaning against it in a rebellious waste of time. When he saw me approach, he flipped the hair out of his eyes and turned away. Then, the rain started.

I made it back to the hill in enough time to witness all the kids of Franklin scattering away from the car and rushing to their front doors; mothers waiting with worried glances and stained aprons. My steps were slow, calculated, sad. I saw the empty car and crawled inside, listening to the pattern of rain above my head like little pebbles falling from an angry hand. The steering wheel and its chrome accented vinyl fit snugly in my freckled fingers, moving slightly as I turned it to my right. That was the direction of the highway, stretched out for miles beside long fields, broken of their gold.

The Butterfly Candle

On our bookshelf sat a tall candle with dozens of butterflies painted inside a sugary glass coating. It added just the right touch in between Mom's biography of Rose Kennedy and the Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook, which I took out to inspect every Friday night while listening to records. The candle was magic: when Mom fired-up its wick and turned out the lamp, butterflies danced around the room in alighted patterns, with each of us kids dancing around like druids; reaching up to catch each flickering winged apparition.

Those were special times, and stolen from the real life we lived, occurring only when Dad was away at his night job. He didn't know that we watched TV or talked in loud, joyful tones. He was away and we were the mice coming out to play: dance, sing, smile; no beer cans being thrown at the wall; none of us being yanked up by our feet and taunted; no hellfire and brimstone to taint our restless sleep. It was time to be free! And we knew, by the smile on Mom's face, that she wasn't going to tell on us. The butterflies and their beautiful dance were our secret, to be stretched out until the wax burned into nothingness.

One night he came home early, and mad about something one of us had done, grabbed the candle. He held it high, up over his dark, gaunt face that slouched in vengeful thoughts. All us kids, and Mom, stood in the living room watching in horror. Surely no human could be so mean, so awful, as to destroy the only thing we had which brought us joy? I didn't understand then, but understand it now, that there is a wall in every human. Most of us recede to the path of light and good--all in favor of love toward others, especially those close to us. But some people are selfish, greedy, vindictive, righteous in the worst ways. Dad threw the candle against the wall and it shattered into a dozen pieces.

A child can pick up a broken piece of glass and still imagine the butterflies dancing; can feel the texture of sugary glass and still be enchanted. But in the broken pieces, a part of me shattered as well. I saw the jagged scraps lying against our ugly brown carpet, and instantly wanted to glue them back together again. He couldn't do this, he couldn't win! But Mom gathered them up and threw all of it into the kitchen trash. Why fix something that is only going to be broken again? Why bring more pain?

You swallow, and hold in words. You keep your eyes open, but look past that which brings sadness.

But you don't forget.

Marshall's face glowing over the open glass, Cathy's eyes twinkling while grabbing my hand, Mom sitting on the couch, happy. A ceiling that moved and fluttered; too far to reach. Before.

It's been a long, long, long time

Today, the temperature has a little negative symbol next to it. And it's supposed to snow . . . again. Now, normally I like snow, it has this magic quality to take the world and change it into the 1800's with all the cars and paved streets and signs masked into a white oblivion. If you listen close enough, you just might hear the sound of sleigh bells coming across the way, and a lonely train whistle blowing through the bleak, forever fields. Someone is drawing a match across flint, ready to light the fabric wick of a hurricane lamp. Shadows flicker across patterned wallpaper, reaching out to a dim light seeping into the room past heavy draperies; light which seems more like left-over moon glow, than the gold of a rejected sun. A cat sits up against thick, wavy glass, silhouetted against the white of the snow. And slow as molasses, it raises and elongates its back into a crackly stretch . . . then lays back down.

But here I am, 2010. It is a number of hope, asking for the commission of pure effort to carry us into success with all areas of life. I pray for all of us that success will come, in every way, across every sector of this earth.