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Get my book- https://a.co/d/cYAbtSZ Read the Yukon Cornelius short story- https://open.substack.com/pub/pulppip... This year I learned my heart and my liver are failing. Early stages, they say. The body delivers its news plainly. It’s the mind that struggles to carry it forward. After the diagnosis, I stopped planning. Days were handled one at a time. Tomorrow stayed just out of reach. Success requires a horizon—something ahead that makes today worth the cost. For me, that horizon thinned. I took the advice to live each day as if it were my last and followed it too far. Walking that path took me straight to stagnation. Pleasure became a substitute for purpose. I avoided tomorrow because I couldn’t see it, and because seeing it hurt. For you writers, this is where it becomes applicable. To make a life from writing is an unreasonable ambition. A long shot. The odds are known. Anyone can recite them. Realism, left unchecked, will smother the work before it ever earns its chance. What I’ve come to believe is this: a measure of delusion is necessary. I could accept the numbers. I could say I won’t be the exception. I could sit with the diagnosis, let it define the limits of my days, and allow my life to contract into something smaller and quieter than it needs to be. Instead, I choose a better lie. The one that says the curve can be bent. The one that says the doctors don’t know everything. The one that gets me out of bed before dawn, into the cold, to run when the sensible choice is rest. That belief doesn’t heal me, but it moves me toward the things that do. Writing is no different. You work without assurances. You write as if effort matters, as if the future is listening. You stand between realism and faith and refuse to let either take over. People will doubt you. They’ll show you the math. Let them keep it. Trust yourself. Do the work as if you have a say in the outcome. Because you do. And sometimes, that is enough to make tomorrow worth reaching for.