Epistle: A Cold Blur of Shame and Hope (January 30-February 4)
2026.01.30
The last few weeks have been a cold blur of routine and inclement winter weather. I found myself rereading my last epistle and journal entries just to anchor myself in time, catching up with the version of me that existed before the frost set in. Since my last letter, Virginia inaugurated its first female Governor. It was a historic moment for the Commonwealth; from my frame of reference, I simply hope her leadership translates into a vision of a kinder future for all people living here, and perhaps, by extension, across the country.
I've been reading/studying a book: Write. Publish. Repeat. There is a section which challenges authors to define their "ideal reader." It seems like a quixotic exercise for an author living in his car who has yet to make a penny from his words, but I have found it clarifying and helpful. I’ve realized I am writing for the moral and the thoughtful; I'm searching for the kind and the curious. I want to speak to those who look at the world, and the people in it, with a sense of wonder and compassion rather than judgment. I hope that doesn't sound preachy; I try to nurture these qualities in myself and often fall short. It is, after all, about the journey.
I had a taste of the "normal" world recently. A neighbor at The Spot needed a ride home from the auto shop; in exchange, she got me some gas and bought me breakfast at Dunkin' Donuts. It was a rare pleasure—sipping coffee, discussing mundane things such as the electrical grid and home repairs. I felt like a normal citizen again instead of a specter on the perimeter of society.
That sense of normalcy and connection invigorated my work. I've finally published The Savannah Story: I, as well as the first part in my series on persuasion. They feel like significant milestones, and I hope you enjoy them.
2026.02.04
Another winter storm shuttered the library this past Saturday, forcing a temporary hiatus. I spent several days cocooned in the depths of my sleeping bag, waiting out the weather. Rather than draining me, I found the isolated boredom refreshing.
This morning felt like a delightful reward. A kind stranger at a local shop hooked me up with a free coffee. Small, random acts of grace like that—witnessed or received—replenish my faith in humanity. As I drove to Wal-Mart for more propane, sipping the coffee and listening to Zach Bryan, I felt a sting of shame for the times when I become cynical and misanthropic.
This week was a productive win for the technical side of things, too. The new version of the website is live, featuring better SEO. It feels good to build something stable while my world is tumbling through limbo.
Now dear readers, it’s time to edit, publish, and move on to the next chapter.