I’ve been thinking – an inane practice I continue far too often – about who I am. What I call the origin of an idiot. This is not a slap in the face to anyone sharing my line of work or the aspirations of becoming an author. No, I leave all recriminations for myself and the length of time it has taken to come to this moment. To be here with you all now.
You can read all the fancy quotes in the world, how writing fills your being, how it infects your thoughts and the way you see events. How you read. How you love. And they’re all pretty damn true. For me it was a third grade writing assignment that turned into my first opus. The Adventures in David’s Desk, a six chapter quest with talking bugs, warring clans of insects, laughs, heartaches, and I even did the illustrations. (My artistic talent hasn’t improved much since that time.) I became so fascinated with the idea of creating worlds I started work on the sequel. (bigger, bolder, and way more explosions, of course.)
But that is how it is with this job. The infection. The writing bug. You envision the world and it comes alive – it becomes a part of you and you have to share it.
Only I stopped sharing. Twenty-five years hidden away, scribbling notes, building arcs, learning and learning and learning while reading all the while.
But I’m here now.
Who am I? I am a writer but more.
I’m a dad, a husband, a comic book fiend, and an idiot for waiting so long to say welcome.
Feel free to drop me a line any number of social media ways, through e-mail or snail mail. (There’s nothing like getting a letter in the mail – Nostalgia Lou.)
Thanks for being here and thanks for reading.