I’m sure you’re preparing yourself for some clichéd rambling about my writing because I must, or that I knew I was a writer since I was seven, or something else to that effect. While all that might be true, I thought I’d delve a little deeper into the subject, while at the same time offering a few candid words behind my motivations in sharing the written word.
I’m not your typical thirty- (around the corner from forty-) something. I’ve spent much of my life observing rather than participating, documenting rather than doing, and analyzing instead of simply enjoying the moment. I can only assume that a good number of other writers have shared a similar path, although it is a difficult one to admit.
If not in talent, then at least in demeanor, I am a Salinger … a Dickenson … a hermit. I strive to understand the human condition, many aspects of which thoroughly confound me, by exploring it through my writing.
If not in talent, then at least in demeanor, I am a Salinger … a Dickenson … a hermit. I strive to understand the human condition, many aspects of which thoroughly confound me, by exploring it through my writing.
I write from an outsider’s point of view. This is both to my detriment and to my advantage. It is only human to want to connect, and so my greatest wish is to reach others in the only way I truly know how. Throw me into the heart of a booming party, and I’m clueless. My heart will race, my body will glisten with sweat, and I will stand awkwardly in the corner of the room, unsure how to interact. The truth is, I don’t fit in. I’ve never fit in. And it is painfully obvious to anyone who has encountered me in person.
I spent my childhood clinging to my books and my studies for some sense of grounding, while bullies singled me out and chiseled away relentlessly at my self-esteem. They saw my weakness, and as any young person will do, my peers exploited it to their greatest advantage. I spent my high school years finding ways to stay as invisible as possible, lest someone notice the bull’s eye painted across my forehead and the word “outcast” visible within the furthest depths of my horrified eyes. Some people fear spiders, some fear snakes, and some fear the dark. I fear none of those; I fear people.
I spent my childhood clinging to my books and my studies for some sense of grounding, while bullies singled me out and chiseled away relentlessly at my self-esteem. They saw my weakness, and as any young person will do, my peers exploited it to their greatest advantage. I spent my high school years finding ways to stay as invisible as possible, lest someone notice the bull’s eye painted across my forehead and the word “outcast” visible within the furthest depths of my horrified eyes. Some people fear spiders, some fear snakes, and some fear the dark. I fear none of those; I fear people.
One of the greatest motivations behind what I write is a stern desire to understand all that eludes me. I seek to gain as much from my works as I would hope others might gain in reading them. Of course, what we each derive will likely be very different, and that is the beauty of it. I write because it is my way of reaching out to you, readers of the world—people I might never otherwise have the chance with which to connect. I write because, although I might not understand you, I know you. I know you very well. That is the gift and the curse of people like me.
So I entreat upon each of you: pick out one of my books, one that might suit you better than the rest. Let us connect through that book. Let me touch you, if I can; in the process, let me offer you a tiny piece of who I am. That is all I have to offer you.
So I entreat upon each of you: pick out one of my books, one that might suit you better than the rest. Let us connect through that book. Let me touch you, if I can; in the process, let me offer you a tiny piece of who I am. That is all I have to offer you.
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