My lighthearted look at the soul-crushing angst of a soldier’s heart is the best way I have to handle the psychic fallout of killing in combat. That thought catapults me into the recliner facing my window on the world. Here I sit, and sit, and sit. This is pretty lame, just sitting here twiddling and fiddling. I can’t think of a better way to spend the morning, though. Later, a walk with Ginger, my canine companion, gives me a quick dose of the will to continue.

Not having the will to continue is my big problem. It has been for a long, long time. Short sentences. Clipped speech. Manic mind. All this weighs heavily upon the writer’s heart. “You’re overdramatic and use purple prose,” said the big bad Wolf/critic.

I could keep writing and talking and blathering, but I haven’t got the will to continue. Hmmm. I’ll have to write about that sometime.

Downcast eyes show a soldier's heart in a photograph of the author taken in South Vietnam, 1969.

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