I write what I want to read.
This guarantees me at least one fan.
There’ve been two moments in my life when writing has been both the clue and the answer. The first was in college when I finished all my general education requirements and the University demanded that I choose a major or go home. I’ve never been good at “what do you want to be when you grow up?” questions. The clue and the answer was "writing." The classes that I most liked all had a writing component. I could math, and science made sense, but the Humanities, where I could think on paper, talk across centuries, find truth in lies, suckered me in like a drunken roundhouse. Employment be damned! Bring me words! English it was.
Graduation, marriage, jobs, assorted careers, ups and downs, beginnings and ends and finally a respite when, at the grizzly old age of [CENSORED] I was again at a crossroads.
"What do you want to do with your life?" the cosmos asked me in the wee hours of the morning, at the hour of the wolf when every terror and uncertainty comes to be named and numbered.
The answer was the same: Bring me words!
I’m a writer. I write. Everything else has been posturing and preamble. Now is pen on paper, electrons on screen. A mark across time. A moment in the imagination.
It’s been a long hard road to get you here, to introduce you to my friends, Tony, Galen and Eleanor, lovely Eleanor. But I have stayed the course and I welcome you here as family.