It's been several years now that I've kept my hands straight on the type. A total of seventeen stories at the ready, and some a little less developed but equally as eager to be told. This process for me has been disgustingly agonizing -- pouring pieces of my fragmented soul into the words, into the characters, into the plots...it's not been a joyous event but the aftermath I can say I'm quite proud of. If anything to be proud of it's the fact that i've finished things. For so long I kept idea's in my pocket, waiting to be pulled out and stretched like taffy only to stay in darkness making friends with the lint and gum-wrappings. The ideas I've finished are now breathing in the Ethersphere and for that I am glad.
I never thought I would become a writer. I never dreamed that such a curious world existed within my own head. It happened by accident, much like all of my stories. Some time or other the idea fell out of my pocket and I went "Ah, there you are. I was waiting for you to show up." It's a strange thing coming into this craft at a later age. All of my heroes knew as if by cosmic force that something was propelling them toward the page but again, when I discovered the magic it was like orgasming for the first time...I never knew this kind of euphoria existed until now. And fuck, now that I know it exists, how in the hell could I ever pretend it didn't? I would've happily trudged on for the rest of my life on course with the current of it's pre-determined heading: to boldly go where I was never meant to be anyhow. Now hey, that's not to say that music won't always be my first love, but alas, it just isn't my one and only, hold-me hug-me anymore. Finally, I have pointed arrows in my ribcage.
Anyway, I did a thing, wrote some stuff and all of it will likely go un-read for such as time is ever long and these bloggy pages seldom get glanced no more. It's a terrible tortuous thing, and yet I wouldn't trade it for all the gold skimming the bottom of the coraled seas. Claiming the struggle is just as imperative as owning the success that may come...and I cross my fingers and hope to Zeus on high Olympus that it does indeed drive by the party. Truth is, even if all my little stories were just for me, I find myself feeling decidedly successful at having expelled them to completion. Better out than in, or something perhaps less poopy of a reference. Well, best leave you on a high note, Duckie. If you should take interest, my most humble and gracious thanks belong with you,