These autobiographical statements are ridiculously hard to write. Am I supposed to try to sell myself to you, try to make you like me? Tell you something that might shed light on a possible connection between us, so you’ll keep reading? Talk about my hopes and dreams and fears, or just throw out the most basic information: a map of my life sketched out on a napkin, with only the major streets labeled? I don’t know.
That probably told you more than enough, didn’t it?
I never set out to be a writer; it’s mostly cathartic, a way of clearing out the mess in my head to make room for the good stuff. I started putting it out there for a few friends to see, mostly to help them understand where I was coming from when I shut down or withdrew or accidentally let fly with some of the rage that had been eating me alive. They asked for more, and I heard that people were starting to see themselves and the things they couldn’t say reflected in my words, and that’s where the books came from.
Sometimes I write with a purpose, if I’m angry about something, fed up with people being cruel to each other, upset with the ugliness in the world. And sometimes I just have a little something running through my head that I want to hang onto a little longer or let go of as quick as I can. All of it ends up here, and now here you are too.
I hate lima beans and love the sun.
Is that enough?
Questions? Ask. Comments? Bring them on. Criticism? Be gentle, please.
Have a beautiful day.