Bees Knees, My Ass

Bees buzz from flower to flower, drawn to their existence, using the tools God gave them to create. And so they do. They rise in the morning (or that’s how I imagine it), take flight, and something in the air grabs their attention—pulling them in a direction that just feels right. They’re not bogged down with logging flight plans or calculating fuel costs. They just get up and fucking fly. And then they land and do whatever the fuck bees do.

Me? I gotta think about metrics. Jira boards. Team building. Customer needs. Industry trends. Organizational direction. All while trying to summon the energy to kickstart a brand-new writing career.

And that is the goal. I want this to become a career—the last one I’ll ever have, but a career nonetheless. But I’m not stupid enough to throw the baby out with the bathwater, even when the baby’s got it coming.

So here I am tonight, obsessing over my next writing project while trying to prepare for tomorrow’s day job.

I’ve been writing feverishly since deciding to take back control of my life. But holy fucking hell, is it work.

Clearly, I love the writing part—sitting down at my computer and letting the words flow from mind to keyboard through mostly obedient fingers. That part lights me up inside. It sustains the fire. This feels right.

But then there are the submissions: making sure your formatting is correct, writing a goddamned cover letter, finding a publication that your story might fit into—and that might be a fit for them. And then submitting. And waiting.

Funny thing I never considered—though it makes total sense: most publishers don’t like simultaneous submissions. Meaning I have to submit, wait for acceptance or rejection (which can take weeks), and then and only then can I submit to the next one. It’s a long game. Patience is key. But damn, it’d be nice to know if I’m hitting the mark somewhere.

Where I stand right now:

Two short stories that offer standalone glimpses into the Keeper Universe I’m creating are out there—waiting. One essay about how riding heals something in my soul is also submitted. I’m somewhere around #700 in the queue for each. So... yeah. It’s gonna be a while.

And so, I struggle. Struggle with what’s next.

I assume I’m hitting the mark until told otherwise—because waiting for feedback that might never come is just a loss of good writing time. So I’m pressing forward with the next piece: a novella that dives deeper into the Keeper Universe. This time, I want to explore the Keepers’ role in protecting the sanctity of the afterlife.

I’m genuinely excited about this one. I think it finally shows people the full picture I’ve been trying to paint. The other two short stories? Those were just selfies in front of one corner of the canvas.

But the struggle is real.

I have to balance writing time with work time—and still find me time, riding time, soul time. But goddamn it, I’m fifty-three years old. Aren’t I supposed to be slowing down by now? Not going faster?

Eh. I’ve always gone against the grain—usually on purpose, usually because someone told me not to.

So tonight, as I lie here thinking about my stories, I find myself cursing bees. Because I bet they’ve never had to worry about metrics or user stories.