why i write

I always fancied myself a writer – the way most scribblers of teen-angst poetry and cheesy romance stories do. A dozen vinyl trapper-keepers, full of short stories and novellas, are stored at my mothers. They’re awful, but I cant bring myself to throw them away. Just in case I do something good one day and, well, there you are.

In high school I didn’t care about sports and pubescent dances; but I was a rocking essayist. In college/university I got excited over theses and dissertations. Couldn’t care less about the subject matter. I just loved research and writing. I have over a million words of academic discourse to my credit. Yes. I’ve counted.

Growing up I always wanted to be a writer – an author. But people didn’t really become authors. Authors were fantastical creatures. Most of them dead. I never thought of them as anything else until I read Salman Rushdie. The Satanic Verses was an assignment from my gifted professor – I was 12 and tried to get out of it, but when local teachers called for the professor’s dismissal on grounds of devil worshiping, (I’m not joking) it piqued my interest. (The lady also had a pet snake and brought in freeze-dried cats for dissection……it wasn’t all The Verses…but thats another story. )

So Rushdie was alive. But he had America’s then arch-enemy calling for his head – and who did that really happen to except Sylvester Stallone? Fantastical. Yep.

A few years later I read a John Grisham novel. Didn’t like it, but realised people still wrote – all was not lost with Mr Clemens.

A few years after that (bear with me) I found myself 18,000 words shy of a certain postgraduate paper. I was watching Carrie Bradshaw (don’t say it) strut her stuff in some fancy Louboutins, reading vogue and eating a cheese sandwich. If I could spit out 8,000 words a week on the criminal mind I could write a book. You know. A book. One of those things.

So I wrote.

Until a few months ago. I’m lazy. You should know this. I’m never in the mood to write what I have to write, but always in the mood. So I took Stephen King’s advice. A writer writes. I may not be able to roll out other novels and a collection of shorts like the science fiction behemoth, but I can roll out a blog. Write a little something every day. About Writing. See how horrible I am – in print. Maybe find out ways to make myself better. Detail the search for a progressive plot, characters that don’t go stale, and an agent who can make me heard. That sort of thing.

As a side, Ive included bits from my work in progress. A little something to remind me what I’m doing here. Doubtful you care; but if you do. Read it. Then tell me what you think. I can take it. I can take it.

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