Daydreamer. Storyteller.
Come and see.
The literature of obscure.
I'd be happy just writing my stories and keeping from self-promotion. In my life, one over-arching impulse has been to remain gray. Not just a face in the crowd. Away and apart is something I did well.
The current publishing landscape would see me do otherwise. To establish some measure of human contact and show I am who I am. That I am not a machine. So, I emerge from that comfortable gray. Here, I come in from the fog.
These letters that form my words contained by my sentences are easy enough to read. Who would think them more difficult to write than a novel? Me. I've expected as much and, in this instance, I must say I'm right.
Since childhood, daydreams and night fantasy birth my stories. The characters? Most are fragments of me. No idea what fuels this or where it comes from. The lesson of Augustine chancing upon the boy gathering the ocean into a sandhole by the beach comes to mind. As far as my tales go, I will never have all the answers. All I can do is try and put them to paper as they arrive.
The writing itself is cathartic.
I'm thankful.
Always.
