If you found your way here, you’re probably like me.
You displayed a gift and love for language when you were young, maybe you learned to read at an earlier age than your classmates. You wrote precocious stories about ghosts and robots when you were younger, a gift that developed into an obsession as you got older. By the time you hit high school you were writing two, maybe three poems a day, filling notebook after notebook. You studied literature in university, not really sure what you would do with it when you were done, but it was all you could think of when they shoved the paper in front of your face. You graduated and drifted, and maybe if you’re like me you decided that you should find a more practical use for your gifts. Maybe you took journalism. Maybe you were good enough to get a job in it for awhile, a job you enjoyed for the time you had it, but not the sort of thing that left you completely fulfilled.
Maybe you got away from your city, eager for the opportunities for reinvention such a move would afford you. Maybe most other aspects of your life are happy. But that need to tell stories never really goes away, does it? Whether retelling truth or crafting your lies, stories have strong roots, you can never fully pull that need out of you. So you start writing your little stories again.
And if you’re like me, you fail. A lot. You don’t finish. You despise every word that goes on the page, you question the sanity of anyone who ever had faith in your “talents.” You get irritable with family, coworkers, friends and lovers.
And if you’re like me, you probably get sick of feeling like that. So maybe you decide to take some of the skills you picked up when you weren’t writing, and use them to keep you motivated as you try to make something of yourself, because your thirtieth birthday is already fading behind you and you finally understand that no one is going to make it happen for you.
So maybe, you start a blog.
This site is for me, as I call the bluff of adolescent mentors and supporters; we’ll see if you were right. It’s to keep the chops up when I can’t focus on fiction as much as I would like, but is in no way a substitute for aborted fiction projects [currently about five on the go, if you must know].
This site is also for you, who might be going through the same thing, and want to take the small comfort that watching someone endure similar experiences will afford you. You will watch me rant, and strive, and fail, over and over. But once in a while, you might see me succeed.
Benjamin Franklin said, “If you would not be forgotten, once you are dead and rotten, either write things worthy reading, or do things worth the writing.”
Eminem said, “Success is my only motherfucking option, failure’s not.”
I try to live my life with both of them in mind.