Location: United States
Member Since:
May 10, 2011
Peter Jacob Streitz
Biography
Peter Jacob Streitz was born a hardscrabble hick from upstate New York. Raised a Holy Roman Catholic from the Empire State, his early life consisted of an indentureship with the local Archdiocese--as an alter boy--before lapsing into an All-American Athlete who counter-cultured his way towards a university degree in Alternative Education. Despite this impediment, he holistically morphed into a high-flying corporate executive within the American industrial complex.
With money, power and success so easily buying (if not love) adulation--but not the soulfulness of bohemia--he headed west from Boston for his one and only Lit class in San Francisco. A class whose shopworn professor--while wearily looking around the room at his youthfully expectant GAWs (Great American Writers)--somberly instructed his angelic assemblage that the only way one can become a true writer is to live the life of a writer.
Unexpectedly freed of the need or want of accreditation, acceptance, acknowledgment, or reward . . . this novelist, as a work in progress, immediately headed for all the dives and hellholes of Bagdad-by-the-Bay. There, with only the benefit, faith, and unshakeable love of his wife, plus, the assorted publicans, barflies, and philosophers who haunt these selfsame spheres--he not only saved his corporeal existence by stepping outside what's socially acceptable . . . but lived his life as a novel, a true adventure.
With this--and the autodidactic immersion into "others" prose--he then composed a tome of three hundred thousand words. It was read and commented upon by hoards of idiots and geniuses alike, before finding its birth mother of a publisher who courageously nursed it towards a public reality.
Now with a past life his present, he begins his future work with the authorial intrusion of an actual literary résumé. And how that plays out is the stuff of plots, climaxes, and dénouements with only one certainty . . . that his success, recognition, and worth in the literary world lies solely with the reader.
With money, power and success so easily buying (if not love) adulation--but not the soulfulness of bohemia--he headed west from Boston for his one and only Lit class in San Francisco. A class whose shopworn professor--while wearily looking around the room at his youthfully expectant GAWs (Great American Writers)--somberly instructed his angelic assemblage that the only way one can become a true writer is to live the life of a writer.
Unexpectedly freed of the need or want of accreditation, acceptance, acknowledgment, or reward . . . this novelist, as a work in progress, immediately headed for all the dives and hellholes of Bagdad-by-the-Bay. There, with only the benefit, faith, and unshakeable love of his wife, plus, the assorted publicans, barflies, and philosophers who haunt these selfsame spheres--he not only saved his corporeal existence by stepping outside what's socially acceptable . . . but lived his life as a novel, a true adventure.
With this--and the autodidactic immersion into "others" prose--he then composed a tome of three hundred thousand words. It was read and commented upon by hoards of idiots and geniuses alike, before finding its birth mother of a publisher who courageously nursed it towards a public reality.
Now with a past life his present, he begins his future work with the authorial intrusion of an actual literary résumé. And how that plays out is the stuff of plots, climaxes, and dénouements with only one certainty . . . that his success, recognition, and worth in the literary world lies solely with the reader.