My Writing
Like most writers, I started telling stories as a child and continued until people around me began to realize my stories weren't necessarily true. (One memory my grandmother recalls involves a nap-time incident in which I kept my brother and several cousins engrossed with story of what I'd seen during a recent trip to the circus. Of course, I'd never been to the circus . . .)
Punishment was swift and harsh, as an adult world banded together to beat the imagination out of a child. That they failed, and miserably, should not be held against them—I utilized every opportunity to rebel against their efforts by escaping to a mythical place populated by Egyptians feasting on German choclate cake. Sure, my grades suffered but, on the up side, I didn't require a lot of toys.
Growing up, I continued to write, continued to live in my fantasy world, and grew stranger (more unique, as one high school teacher gently phrased it) with each passing year. All the while I envisioned a world where I, as an adult, would sit in a room, write all day, read all night, and eat as much macaroni and cheese as I pleased.
Then the world changed.
My undergraduate years were spent studying English (with an emphasis on Russian Literature) and Philosophy (with an emphasis on Augustine and Aquinas—what can I say, it was a Catholic college). They were great years, and I passed through them in a state of blind ignorant euphoria that's often associated with children and the mental challenged. Along the way I wrote some stories and even published a couple.
Then one day an aunt, who previously encouraged my endeavors, took me to lunch. As we sat waiting for our food, she told me, quite frankly, that I was graduating from college with the two most worthless decrees available from American academia. What did I intend to do with my life? Teach?
Luckily, the food had arrived and I managed to mumble something into my sandwich about writing.
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped. "You need a real job. Why don't you go to law school?"
No worse advice was ever given or more promptly followed.
Those years following law school were the dark years. Luckily, I am married to a supportive woman or Heaven only knows how it might have ended. In truth, it was her encouragement that returned me to writing and brought about this website. Blame her if you don't like what you see.
Meanwhile I'm writing again and if you're interested, you can read some of my "stuff" here. I don't promise that it's perfect or great or even worth your time. But they're my stories and my essays, and I've enjoyed writing them.
The Reluctant Fisherman