A few years ago, while I was spinning a bit of clay into a teapot in my pottery studio, I found myself talking out loud to no one in particular. No only was I talking, but I was telling a story. That day began a new journey. That was the day I got out a yellow legal pad and wrote for the first time without having to write.
The story is long gone, never finished and quite bad I assume, but since then I’ve written hundreds of thousands of words. I’ve even had one of my horror shorts published. It was a wonderful feeling, and still is, to see my name in black with the pictures I created in words lined up below it.
I began writing fantasy, inspired by Tolkein and Holdstock, but came to find out I was more suited to write darker tales. So my writing drifted downward into depths I’d only ever explored during nightmares. In a way, it’s been quite cathartic for me since chronic nightmares are something I’ve had since I was a wee child. I’m using them, and with that they’ve lost their power to keep me awake an night staring at the ceiling wondering what lurks just beyond the edge of the bed.
So, to bring a few more of my pieces to light while I work on getting my first novel published and writing my second and third, I’ve staked out a little claim to call my own for a while.
My life is in flux right now, but my writing will always be a constant. Here it is for what it’s worth. My hallway, filled with stories pinned up and down its hardwood walls.
