joni abilene

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Month: December, 2013


Almost made it through this thing called the holidays but not without a little sickness here, a little sickness there, stress, overindulgence, family arguments, and a good case of cabin fever. I’d love to pass through it all and find myself firmly in March, but unless I’m in a drunken stupor, that ain’t about to happen. So, cold, boring, dry, itchy-skinned January and February it is. This is when it’s nice to be a writer. Not sure what the other folk do, but for me it’s wonderful to have a place of escape. I’ll either edit the crappola out of the book I wrote this summer or write a completely new one. Best to stick with the edits though. Best in all ways.

I have an essay coming out in January. That’s exiting. Nice to be able to show the world that I do more than just sit around and talk about writing. I do have product. It does exist. And then there are stories out there on sub. Will be interesting to see what happens with those.

I always figure time is a lamb that we must not rope. It moves of its own free will, and we must let it. Time is a gift, a letter, a hope. We cannot rush these things, though part of me clutches the lasso. All in good time. I can wait.

Happy New Year to each and all!




First all the people said he won’t make it to Heaven. And I agreed. Yes, yes, I nodded, he won’t make it to Heaven. Then all the people said she won’t make it to Heaven. Again I agreed. Yes, yes, she won’t make it to Heaven. Then all the people said they won’t make it to Heaven. Blindly, I agreed once again. Yes, yes, they won’t make it to Heaven. Then out of nowhere all the people began pointing at me and said you won’t make it to Heaven.

Scared, I asked, “Why?”

No one had a good answer. I wandered out on my own.

For the remainder of my days I walked with head held low and thoughts to myself. Why? Why? I questioned.

Then one day I died.

I was up on a mount, looking down, and I could see all the people pointing at each other saying him, her, they . . .

I turned to a set of gates. The sign said: “The Moon.” It looked marvelous beyond, but I couldn’t get over the fact that all the people had been correct: I hadn’t made it to Heaven.

A man came to unlock the gate. “Why so glum?” he asked.

“Because I didn’t make it,” I replied.

“Like hell you didn’t.” He pointed to another set of gates further on down the cloud and laughed. A sign said Heaven in wonderful gold letters, though the space beyond the entryway was dark and morose. “That’s what they want, and they can have it. But this is the real place right here.”

I was tentative. “So you mean, I made it? To the eternal paradise? And everyone was wrong?”

“Yep. I was sick to death of them folks coming up here, telling me who I could and couldn’t let inside. Him, her, they . . . All them people was gonna ruin it! So, I made an extra spot—the kind they kept talking about—and they can spend forever fighting over who gets in.” He rubbed his hands together with a flourish.

“Oh,” I said, relieved. “The Moon” really did look like a much better place to spend an eternity in than Heaven.

Then we went in and had hot fudge sundaes and watched the entire first season of Monty Python.

The End.


I’m feeling very out-of-sorts today and don’t know why. Really. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the afterglow of Thanksgiving. All that work . . . and then. Nothing. Or maybe it’s the weather. So unpredictable. I like things that repeat. Maybe it’s that I’ve had a little bit of wine the last few nights, and I hardly ever drink anymore. You really do pay for that buzz. So, I don’t know. It’s probably all of that.

Got stories out. Still working on that book. One thing about being a writer is it’s so darn lonely sometimes. You know? You literally pour your heart onto the page and then have to wait months for an acceptance, but it’s usually a rejection. And all around you people are tweeting and retweeting each others’ work, their readings and releases. It can be overwhelming at times. And like I said, lonely.

The cure to anything is work. Lots and lots of work. Here I go . . .