Review of Previous Post...

So I've been thinking about my last post. My numerical satisfaction rating, in retrospect, at first seems arbitrary. Why "8.5"? Admittedly, I chose a number at random that suggests an overall level of satisfaction without making my life seem like some modern day spin on the Donna Reed Show (does anyone else in my age bracket even remember the Donna Reed Show?... perhaps the blame here lies on too much Nick at Nite as a child during the early years of cable television). Again, why "8.5"? What is this 1.5 that holds me back from attaining ultimate contentedness? In an attempt to break down my discontent numerically, I've come up with the following:

-.25 I despise where I live. It's hot. It hasn't rained in over a month. There is little of beauty here to appreciate or to inspire. "Here" is the antithesis of "home." I'm far away from extended family and anyone in my network of friends. Here I have only professional colleagues, none of whom I am able to form any real ties with as my current position has me working primarily with people much older than me.

-.25 I haven't written a damn thing in years. Well, nothing creative, anyway. This burden, however, is not as heavy as it was once upon a time when I thought I lacked the ability or the spark. It just can't be fit in due to the nature of my current responsibilities. This saddens me marginally, but in the overall scheme of things I can't say that this detracts from my contentedness any more than a mere .25. I know that everything I have ever intended to say with the pen is still there waiting for a time when the focus of my life shifts again and I'll have the time to create with language.

-1 I am currently failing at a goal that I have previously succeeded at, and it frustrates me beyond belief. Certainly the failure to create literature stings, but the failure to generate life stings far worse. Those reading may think that surely this frustration merits more that a "-1" in the larger context, but as stated, I have experienced previous success in this arena, and the product of that success brings me limitless pleasure. So, if doesn't happen again, it doesn't, and I'll eventually come to terms.

So, these are the things that currently plague my peace of mind. At present, I have no control over my locale, that choice being regulated by a certain governmental agency. I take charge of my literary life by making a pact with myself to squeeze it in when I can and never give it up, even if I don't write the great masterpiece of my life until I'm 72 or some such number. And the last, well, the quest on that front continues.

I guess 8.5 wasn't so arbitrary. Just an excellent estimation on my part.