My last post was holding myself accountable for continuing a novel I started. But I’m not there in that story anymore and have no interest in continuing. The story was to be about the search for a teenage daughter of a Georgia sheriff. I wrote it for a younger audience—teen. The kidnapper was to be sovereign citizen seeking revenge. It was inspired by a courthouse shooting in Georgia last June.
I don’t want to write this story anymore. I still would like to write a novel, but this isn’t it. So, I’m starting over and will think of a new story. The idea of writing about a kidnapping does not appeal to me in the least anymore, though it did just five months ago.
Speaking of starting over, I went to confession at my church yesterday. It was a bad day all around, but I wanted to do this for myself. I hadn’t been to confession in over ten years. My son has to go to his first confession as part of his religion education soon. I wanted to do it prior to him doing so. The last time I went I was called to do so by the priest that married my husband and me. I can’t remember what I confessed. So, this time I went back twenty years ago to into my late teen to early twenty years and confessed my stupidity and foolishness. I cried. Apparently, I have a clean slate. I can’t remember maybe I fessed up to this stuff ten years ago, but I wanted to be sure. But, after all was said and done, the priest asked a few more questions to make sure I revealed all my sins.
Visit psychics? Fornicate prior to marriage? Drugs?
All those sweet grandmothers that go all the time practically walked out smiling. Maybe I’ll be like one of them next time now that I apparently don’t have to bring up the stuff I confessed again. It’s a lot easier not to sin when you are not a teenager or a single early twenty-something. I know those grandmothers must kick back on their porch swings and let the crazy younger days reel run through their heads. Perhaps they cringe to some of the foolishness, too.