Let's talk, you and I. Let's talk about writing.
Writing (and all the extremities of life that make a man learn through failure soaked experience) has, in what might sound like some hocus-pocus Hallmark tagline for the cheerful and recovered, saved me from suicide.
How, you (may) ask?
At my core, I am nothing more than a botched excuse of a man trapped behind the flaky freezing skin of a twenty-one-year-old who once wished so desperately to have a career in video game design. Having dropped out of college for reasons both within and beyond my control, I seeped into a nasty bought of depression that bogged any happy memories I once cherished.
This is beginning to sound like a reflective circle-jerk of forced congratulations. Let me finish without dragging my feet.
Through all that I have lost, all the friends, all the years, all the hope, I am both brimming and foolishly proud to declare that my love of writing has only grown exponentially. Knowing that I'm still a student to the school of Life, I am nothing but awe struck when I ponder the possibilities of my works to come. I'm growing, aging, and only getting better.
But that does not mean I'm a great writer, or even a good writer for that matter.
I am simply what I am, a writer, and whether or not you like what I type, just remind yourself that I always write for an initial audience of one, myself. If I had time to care about what others thought of me, I'd be on Facebook instead of here.
I will soon be an aspiring writer with a finished manuscript and a warm, pleading handshake. As I begin to look for publishers while lacking that thin sheet of paper (a degree or a golden ticket, take your pick) that the best writers seem to frame above their desks, I'll just remind myself of one thing: I am happy when I'm writing.
Before I sign out, there is one more thing I must say.
I LOVE SHORT STORIES!
This world seems keen on forgetting that they still exist, and by the power bested in me, I will scourge Smashwords with my boyish-wit and post all of mine here, for you, for free.
Novels? Don't expect to find them here, sadly. If there comes a day when an optimistic man looks into me and sees a thriving/struggling writer behind the tears, then I'll... I'll...
I'll cross that bridge when I get there, if the bridge is even there to begin with.
In short, if I publish my novels here, it means I have given up on my fool's quest and have submitted to perma-part-time.
But hey, let's not end on a sad note! How about a joke?
What do you get when you cross a riddle and a rhetorical question?
Thank you for sifting through the loose lines of nothingness that is this bio and secretly wanting to know more about me.
There will be more to come, so just be patient.
Looking For A Friend
Lost on the wrong side of the tracks, twenty-one-year-old Stephen searches desperately for his friend with an unwanted guest: An optimistic prostitute.
The English language is full of small, short lettered words, but even the little words can do big things. They can cover infidelity, they can demoralize, and as poor twelve-year-old Nick realizes all too late, they can be used by a sadist against him for abduction.
To Love Cats
Are you a cat person or a dog person? This question would normally be easy for Allen to answer, but when he becomes forced to settle the obscenities of a gruesome abandoned crime scene, his limits are pushed and his mind is scared. This journey affects Allen, making him wonder if he'll ever be able to normally live in society again... or if he's too far an anxious cold blooded killer.
We are Not Without Purpose
Bound by minimum wage and lost in misery, a young man goes back to the one place he knows where his suicide will go undisturbed: Lake Michigan.
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