Like many Americans who didn’t vote for Trump, I have felt in a bit of a daze since Tuesday evening. I’ve been fluctuating between feelings of sadness, disbelief, disgust and anger. When did our country become so bigoted, so full of hatred, with such little disregard for others–particularly women, minorities, immigrants and other vulnerable humans? When did logic and truth become things we could twist and barter with ease, rape and felony convictions things we could ignore? I feel like I just watched over 74 million people pour gasoline on the country and light matches in unison. They’re gleeful, enraptured, and ready to watch it all burn. As long as their stomachs are fed, their gas is cheaper, and they’re comfortable and at ease, that’s all they seem to care about. They want to be just like their false god, the one they all but profess to worship, Trump-branded Bibles in hand. A book that is full of stories about loving your enemies, sacrificial love, humility and the dangers of idolatry. The hypocrisy is blinding.
I’m puttering around our house this weekend, reflecting on these things, while doing some cleaning and organizing . I am trying to process everything and think of ways forward. “Not enough data” my brain keeps telling me. “Nobody knows what to expect.” “Perhaps some tea would help?” I like the last one.
We are also finishing up yardwork in preparation for the Winter–I am dealing with a bad case of poison ivy currently from that endeavor. I’ve declared war on the plant and its roots system and will be donning my full camo suit and face paint soon.
I also finished my first draft of my YA Fantasy novel. I like it a lot, but need to go in and clean up a few areas and tighten a few loose screws. The motor of the story gives way a little over halfway through and sputters out erratically. Reader safety and all. I’m hoping to start sending that out en masse to agents and publishers this holiday season.
Until then, if you see a woman wandering around her backyard spraying Roundup in a biohazard suit, muttering to herself about hypocrites and Jasmine tea blends–don’t worry it’s just me. I’m talking with the guy in dusty sandals. He’s seen this all before, and He knew long ago that this was coming. He’ll refill my teacups and listen to me. He will guide me in this season and the next to come. Take care and happy writing.
A.R. Clayton 