Confessions of a Closet Author

I love words. Written, spoken, gestured, you name it I love them.

Words are the way that emotions are painted, stories are spun, and hopes are realized.  Without words we’d be nothing.

I am a writer.  I’ve spun stories ever since I could remember. Inspired by the mounds of books that I played with as a child in the cool of the basement on hot summer days.  When the cool drove me to the warmth, it was under a blanket by a lamp that I followed the adventured of Homer, Ullyses, Nancy Drew.  Read about the great Pyramids of Egypt, the mysterious Orient of my birth, the jungles of South America and the mysterious Dark Continent.  I traveled far beyond our Solar System with the works of Heinlein, Bova, Niven, and McCaffrey to name a few.

All of these authors painted pictures in my head that allowed me to learn the art of story telling.

Then I started telling others my stories and came to a crushing realization that maybe I couldn’t tell stories.  According to my teachers, I was too far-fetched.  Not grounded.  A dreamer.  My inner storyteller retreated for many years.  Still telling stories, just not publically.

Then, I came to a realization not to long ago that they were all wrong and very, very short sighted.  You see, writing is subjective.  One person’s style will not always appeal to another. I can’t tell you how many ‘best-selling’ novels, fiction and non, that I have regretted reading.  That being said, I give every author who has published the credit they deserve for having the balls to get their work out there.

So, I’m taking up the reins of my writing again.

I tell a good story.

I’m bringing you all on the journey with me.

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