“I know little of where I am, nothing of what’s on the other side, and as far as I can tell, the in between looks kinda foggy.”
Talk about myself? Here, and like, in front of strangers? People who have full lives and have done things, and maybe they can run super far or know card tricks and play jazz guitar, and they’re really great at math? Strangers who volunteer at homeless shelters and sing arias or have compost piles and restore old British motorcycles and their partners design quilts? Folks from other lands who speak many languages and have seen things beyond my imagination? People who have been betrayed, abandoned in their youth, have overcome seemingly insurmountable hardships and now own and operate a few small restaurants—all organic ingredients and locally-sourced—in the South Bay and you need a reservation six-weeks in advance? Talk about myself to readers who’ve made it all the way through Moby Dick?
I sit in a chair for hours-at-a-time and make stuff up. Fascinating so far, right? For six years I sat and wrote and rewrote a story about a first-year English teacher named Victoria Merritt. Her story became Fathers’ Day and picked up recognition from the writing business. Yep, at some levels, writing’s all business. My wife and two daughters helped keep me sane through the process; that and riding my bicycle—a lot. Encouraged by readers and the business, I finished a second unpublished novel and I’m working on a couple others.