I write. That’s what I do. Much of time, my writings are kept secret, hidden from the eyes of others. It’s either, unfit for public consumption, weak and/or poorly developed, or it’s of such a personal nature that protecting it is imperative. Only in the last few years have I been guilty of exposing some my writings to the world. The strange thing about that is some of you liked it. Some of you encouraged me; wanted me to write more. And, so I did.
Over the last couple of years, between unemployment and motivation, I tapped out sixty-five thousand words into a coherent piece of paranormal thriller fiction. I think its good. The trusted people that have read it think it’s good. I’ve heard comments like, “I couldn’t put it down,” and, “One of the best books I have read in ages,” and, “You might be my newest favorite writer.” What writer in his right mind would not like hearing accolades like that. The only thing lacking now is an industry professional to feel the same. Someone with the passion to get it sold to the right publisher. I have to trust that will ultimately happen.
So here I sit, for the most part an undiscovered writer, feverishly pounding away at the keyboard, working on my second novel with hopes and dreams the day will come, when I will walk to a bookshelf in some big bookstore and find my work waiting for the next fan to come take it home. Until then, I write with the knowledge that I am above all else… a writer.
With sixty staring me in the face, I have developed inflammation of the sentence structure and definite hardening of the paragraphs. ~ James Thurber