You must forgive me, dear reader, for I will not be unilaterally jumping into an outstanding issue of peace and justice this week. As I am accumulating more columns for The Echo, I am getting reassurance as well as constructive advice from all of my journalism friends and I commend them for their immeasurable efforts. I think we all should, for their hard work in conforming to deadlines and their scrupulous professionalism.

As these wonder-boys and wonder-girls set a bar of excellence with their fine news work, I feel inclined to tell you that I am trying to work just as hard as a writer and as a conveyer of issues that I feel are of an imperative nature.

I want to be setting up a comfortable, yet disciplined setting for myself in order to do only the best writing. I have decided to write longhand the first draft, and set a specific time of week for my article, when all of my thoughts, wonders, considerations and critiques may find a steady flow from the ink of my pen to the lines of the paper.

For atmosphere’s sake, I will tell you that I am writing this in Albany, N.Y. After five weeks of continuous hard work at college, I find myself in a most peaceful setting. I am downstairs, surrounded by a Scottish plaid printed floor, writing on a creaky desk next to a charming lamp that lights my way across the page.

After a beautiful Italian dinner in Lake George with my family, a picturesque drive that only Grandma Moses could portray in her winter landscape paintings, and 14 hours of sleep into a Saturday morning, I woke up to the wise and humble countenance of my 60-year-old father, already dressed, with a pot of coffee brewing for me.

We spoke of current events, a continuing discourse from the previous night. With an iced whiskey in hand and the ember-orange fireplace illuminating his white hair and Irish-blue eyes, he held nothing back in accordance with his sentiments toward President Bush and the Iraq War. I found myself listening intently, a pupil to his furtive words.

My mind started wandering during the course of the night. “I am making so many mistakes with the club.” My thoughts ranged my weaknesses as a leader in the Peace and Justice Club. I had a young man in my philosophy class, after attending one of the Peace and Justice Club meetings, express that he was surprised at the lack of attendance at the meetings. My heart was absolutely broken. Funny enough, my subconscious rendered a similar notion in a dream I had the previous night.

In my recollection of the dream, I was standing with my megaphone near a crooked line of students ready to march for an issue relating to the club. By the end of the dream, my words to these students were falling silent in the abyss, and the Peace and Justice Club members were scattered, confused, and out of place. We were not reaching our aim of a collective outspoken response to an issue of imparity in society. The young man’s statement was only said in earnest.

My pen writes fluidly across this page as I speak my honest words. I know my own weaknesses as a leader. I know that I need to be more assertive. I know that I need to learn the intricacies of finance more. I know that I need to learn how to keep an address book within the confines of my e-mailing system.

I know that I can do better. On Feb. 17, 2007, from my house in Albany, N.Y., I promise you, dear reader, that I will work so hard with my comrades to dispel any adverse notions of the Peace and Justice Club, if any.

I have come to my roots. My roots find themselves in sharp New Yorker fashion. Here in Albany, I am able to walk by the capital buildings that demonstrate the essence of grandeur in the political realm. I am able to discuss with my best friend about the new spitfire governor, Elliot Spitzer, for whom we worked on Inauguration Day this year.

Here we pronounce the word “ball” as “bawwwl.” Here we drive by the neon signs of Irish Bars, stellar metro coffee shops, and neighborhood streets, which are aligned with ethnic markets. Here I am able to breathe a different, urban air. This air’s familiarity reassurances my anxieties.

The capital of New York has a certain swagger to it. It has to, with an important brother three hours down the Hudson River . Albany needs to stand tall; it plays with the big boys in politics. I will feed off its confidence and intensity, and I will say to myself, with distinct dialect, “Don’t worry Peace and Justice Club, we are a work in progress. We are growing steady and doing great things. Everything is going to be awwwlright.”