Control: Hope

I, Dalton Lewis, mope sometimes, and for that I apologize. . In previous years I would wake up with the hope to write for a couple of hours before hanging out with friends or watching a good sports game or playing a good video game. Today I didn’t want to do any of those things, especially write.

I apologize for my moping and complaining. I shouldn’t do it — I shouldn’t complain. I play games with toy soldiers. I play an esport that’s a blast — it’s lots of fun to play Starcraft 2 on the ladder and try to get smarter and better. I read books regularly — I am almost done reading another book and started to read East of Eden, a wonderful book by John Steinbeck. I want to find more classics with interesting storylines, like murder and greed and passion.

My parents love and care for me. They pay my bills — along with the government — because I am mentally ill. I do have paranoid schizophrenia which does hurt my mind and causes effects that hurt my body. I used to think that I should hate life, but I have changed my mind. I don’t have the worst life of all time, watching movies and listening to classic rock all day long.

I struggle with work. I want to work but never pull the trigger to get the job. I know that working would help my self-esteem and make me some money. That just doesn’t happen, and I don’t know why. I just know that, in future years, I may need to get a job. I want to support myself if that is feasible.

I have friends. I know a filmmaker who makes three or so short films a year and made a web series. I know a couple of Navy vets, one who plays wagames and the other which roleplays online now that he moved away. I went to high school with Simon, who lives in Florida and hangs out and plays video games — and wants to make them. I have Finnegan, a friend from long ago who creates roleplaying game supplements and loves to try every board game that is interesting or challenging. I have a sister who cares for me and reads all of my novels no matter what.

I have written for twenty years and written half a dozen or so books, some of which I am very proud. I don’t think that it’s a failure to not sell millions of copies. I still expressed myself to the best of my ability. I can be proud that I did something difficult and dangerous and succeeded. I have hope that the next forty-one years will be interesting and full of wonderful people who love me — just like the first forty-one.

Thanks, and take care, friends.