As we journey through life, there are certain experiences that define us and set us on to another path that we perhaps had never really considered before. About five years ago, there was something inside of me that said it was time to give into the thing that I am and always have been. That is not to say that creating stories and having the ability to see things in life and in others that they miss was not part of me since my birth. I have always been what I am; I have always been a writer. I was simply able to keep that sometimes-difficult truth from myself.
When I work up enough gumption to tell someone that I have the abilities that I somehow possess invariably they say, “Oh, that must be fun”. Writing to me has never been something that I would term as fun. It has always been something that burned and itched. Something that kept me awake at night and prodded me to finish the story before it possessed me. I have written half a dozen full-length novels to date and I have broken down and cried like a lost child after every one. The act of creation, even something that has never existed before, is overwhelming to me. It is also something that I cannot stop.
I Jones for my next tale like the junkie hanging out by the dumpster behind the convenience store. Now that I have given in to my urges, my greatest hope is that someone will benefit from my effort and pain, and in an odd way, that makes it all worthwhile. Even though I have admitted that writing is not comfortable, I still have the desire to share what I do. I hope that I can be informative, entertaining, or maybe even sympathetic to the reader. Honestly, I will settle for any of those emotions. My biggest concern is that I make you feel what my characters are feeling, and if I can do that very difficult thing, then I can call it a win.