It's 9AM
Your time is more valuable than that.
I watched Gary Vee say it to one of his employees.
They were watching is Macbook boot up.
At first I thought Vee was being impatient.
After all, we were only fifteen seconds into the video.
But the look on the other guys face said it might have been longer.
He explained that it was going to happen, that it was coming.
And Gary answered that if it takes a few minutes every time, how much time is wasted just waiting.
I thought about it this morning as my computer showed me the blue circle of indecision.
Totally my fault.
I have four tabs open in Chrome, working, searching and spiraling across the world wide web.
I have the Documents drive open and on the toolbar so I can click over for an easy search of the saved files.
A picture open in paint so I can actually read the text in the image.
And word.
Word.
A bane of my working existence.
A page of ideas.
A list of things to be done.
A work in progress
A work done.
A post for here.
Some lines for there.
Old work to be put someplace new.
New work, and lines and words in Word.
Too many tabs open and the computer gets grumpy.
Bogs down.
I know the easy solution.
Title and close the windows.
Tuck them into the Documents folder and work on one thing at a time.
Focus.
Or get a faster computer that can keep up with the random access memory way I work.
Which is probably a better plan.
Have a video rendering in the background while I’m downloading more audio and uploading a file.
Better solutions aren’t always the easiest.
I just don’t know where the pain point is.
Because once I close the windows down to a more reasonable amount.
Once I remind myself that focus is good and it’s okay to keep one doc open to capture all the thoughts, ideas and plans that pop in while you’re working on all these other things-
Just finish the task at hand.
This old banged up computer is good enough.
And good enough gets the job done.
I’m sure I try to ascribe all sorts of connections between a beat up laptop and my own beat up body and broken mind.
We’re making do, making it through and we get the job done.
My trusty keyboard and me.
Fifty windows open, music playing somewhere in the background and the occasional glitch where we forget why we went into the kitchen.
The last one might be more me than laptop.
Still, the words come out like they are supposed to, and the stories get strung together even if it takes just awhile longer.
But I wonder…
Is good enough good enough?
I’ve pondered this before.
Even yesterday, in my drive to the ball fields to soak up summer weather finally.
Windows down, music low, and the wind whipping through my buzzed off haircut, I pondered life.
This newsletter going out daily until Feb 14 2024.
Is it good enough?
My relationships with the people in my life.
Good enough?
Stories lined up, novels ready to roll, and running, training, even my mind.
Are they all just good enough?
Or could they be better.
Because some time at the beginning of the year I sat down with a plan.
1%.
Try to get one percent better every single day at what I do, no matter what.
Writing? Read more and write more and practice more.
Running? Train harder, smarter.
People? Talk more. Be open and honest and give love, no matter what you get back.
Eating? Beef. More protein. Eliminate artificial stuff from your life.
I’m going to send you a whole thing about that last line.
Eliminate artificial stuff from your life.
Especially food. Do it for 90 Days and you’ll change everything.
For the better.
But back to me being better.
I fall down.
I fail.
I can blame work, which I hate because it steals time from the thing I love, which is “The Work.”
This and stories and videos and more.
But blaming takes the control away from me and gives it to something else, and I can’t do that.
I try not to blame.
I try not to complain.
I try to close most of the open tabs in life and focus.
Breathe.
Get After It.
Focus on the 1% solution.
There is enough time to do it all, and what gets left by the wayside, well, save that in a file for another day.
Just don’t keep the tabs open.
You are subscribed to the free version of 9AM.
I hope you find some inspiration out there.
If you’d like to upgrade to the paid version, you’ll get access to exclusive content, including even more free books, excerpts and snippets. Your support is awesome.
What are you reading? Share the title in the comments so I can add to my list.
Science Fiction & Fantasy / May group promo
Free Magical Realism group promo
Cosmic Carnies – sci fi comedy
How I start my mornings French Market Coffee,
Plus check out these free books:
Tarantula: A John Milton Novella (free)
Wired Rogue: Vigilante Justice Thriller Series
Breaker: (Charlie Cobb Book #1:
From Temporary Merc – Reprobate
CHAPTER ONE
First rule.
There are no gentleman's rules in war.
Rules get written by survivors, and those survivors don't want anyone to know what kind of shit they did or how horrible they were to survive.
So they create the myth of the gentleman.
Honor. Duty. All that shit.
And it is just that. A bunch of shit.
Cause when you're going through Hell, it's all about you and the guy next to you, and that gal on the other side of you.
All about surviving and staying alive.
And to do that, you have to kill the enemy.
You kill the hell out of them, and live to do it all over again, like some time loop crazy way of living.
Second rule.
When you get out, when you put in your twenty and you're done, you don't talk about it.
Not to anybody.
You can talk shit to the people who survived it with you. But talking shit ain't doing shit, if you know what I'm saying.
Cause talking shit sounds like a fishing tale from earth.
Everything gets bigger with the retelling of the tale.
And I was done talking anyway.
I did my twenty, and got out of the Galactic Federation Corps with all limbs intact and planned to collect my pension and drink.
I didn't talk to anyone for the first six months.
Just did a tour thing, the kind of thing kids did in a gap year back on earth when they backpacked around Europe and slept in hostels.
Or some of my veteran buddies still did, heading back to the North American Union and hiking up one side of the continent on the Pacific Coast Trail, across the whole of it on the Cross Canadian Trail way and down the Appalachian Trail.
I didn't want to go back to earth.
Not ever again.
So I took a tour of the space stations and colonies.
And I drank and I didn't speak to one living soul.
Plenty of dead ones did enough talking to me.
The guy who did our group separation said that we needed a hobby. Said that seventy percent of veterans of combat operations ate the end of a blaster in the first six months they were out because they couldn't do the transition to civilian life.
Seven out of ten hard charging sons of bitches couldn't handle that kind of life.
For six months, I didn't say a word and wondered which side of the spectrum I'd fall into.
The seven or the three.
I didn't have any hobbies.
Unless you counted drinking and barge hopping and moving on before the memories could catch up.
"There you are," a man stepped out of the crowd and hopped up on a stool next to me.
I couldn't remember what space station we were on.
Damn things dotted the galaxy wherever precious minerals could be found and that was a lot of space.
Asteroids. Moons.
Hell, I'd been on a rocket powered station that tailed a comet because the core was made of palladium.
Lots of miners and scientists and politicians on every single one.
A lot of current soldiers, all young, dumb and full of piss.
I looked at the guy on the stool next to me.
We were in a bar, which could have been called a dive on earth, but it was the kind of place I liked.
Drinks were cheap and it was dark, lit by neon colored LED's and populated with hard workers just looking for a place to unwind after a shift.
Maybe I looked like I belonged.
It had been a few weeks since I showered, longer than that since I hadn't slept in my wrinkled jumpsuit.
He did not look like he belonged.
He looked fresh, and crisp, buttoned up.
Hair clipped short in military fashion, black and tight and slick. Ice blue eyes that flashed with intensity.
Trim waist, gray shirt tucked into non-descript black pants.
He held out a muscular calloused hand I didn't shake.
That didn't seem to bother him.
"I've been searching for you," he said and pulled a tablet from the small bag carried on a cross strap on his shoulder.
He set it on the bar between us, finger poised above the touchscreen.
"I almost caught up with you on Ceres," he said and waved off the robot drink tender as it rolled over on a rail to offer a drink. "But you hopped a freighter just as I docked."
I held up a finger to stop him and he bit back what he was going to say next.
Then I motioned to the robot to come back and tapped my glass.
The metallic arm whirred up and a stream of amber colored liquid trickled from one of the fingers into the glass.
"You will need to reboot your credits," it said before whirring away again.
"Don't worry, next round's on me," the man said.
I opened my mouth to offer thanks, but closed it again before the words came out.
I was on a streak, like a monk with a vow of silence, so I tried to thank him with my eyes instead.
"Are you injured?" he creased his eyebrows in concern and tapped the screen.
He pulled up a file and used his thumb and forefinger to make it larger.
"No mention of accidents in your file, but did something happen since you separated?"
I took a sip of my drink and thought about telling him that I wasn't interested in what he was selling.
The Galactic Federation Corp, GFC, released lists of separated veterans every month when they turned out the next group of survivors.
Those lists were picked up by markets and insurance salesmen, or salesman of all types looking to remove as much of the thin pension from the vets as they could.
I wondered if this guy was selling life insurance and how many pay outs he had made seven out of ten times.
"I know what you're thinking," his bright eyes flashed.
I bet he didn't.
"You're wondering why I'm looking for you. Wondering what I've got to say to you all the way out here on the asteroid rim."
I wasn't.
I wanted to drink in peace and silence and try to drown out the screams of the dying.
The ones I killed and the ones who once were beside me.
"I'm Major Jorge Strait," he tried the hand again. "Have you heard of me?"
Heard of him?
"Son of a bitch," I croaked and finally took his hand.