If you are a citizen of the United States, I hope that by the time you read this you have either voted or are on your way to vote. Voting can make one feel a bit pebble on the beach-ish, especially in national elections where it can seem sometimes as if the entire Presidency comes down to one or two districts in Ohio or Florida. Such is often the nature with so many of the choices we make. Maybe you’ve written a book. Each of those words is a single choice. Maybe you deliberated over a word, or maybe the choice felt made for you. Either way, it was a choice. Either way, that word did not find it’s way to the page until you pulled the lever in the voting booth of your literary mind.
Sometimes when I listen to the gnashing of our political teeth on television or radio or newspapers, it easy to hear a cry for help amid all the complaints: Spare me from all these choices. They never cease. Moment after moment, from dawn until dreams I have to make them. Any one of the choices could be wrong, and any one could be right. The target keeps moving.
Woe betides the politician who had the power to deprive me of this, my most sovereign suffering. Up would stand my Minute Men with their loaded muskets. Let no one save me from myself, for I am the only one of me I have. I practice being me every day, with every word, every choice, and even every vote.
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