20 Years Later, I Finally Completed My Book

It’s been so long since I last touched base about my book that I wouldn’t blame anyone for forgetting that I had written one in the first place. Well, long story short, writing is the easy part, editing is the hard part. Shocker.

I presented my Mom with the finalized manuscript on Mother’s day. She told me that when I was nine I informed her that I would write a book some day. It took me the better part of twenty years, Ma – sorry about the wait.

All my life I have been surrounded by the most kind, creative, and talented people imaginable. I hope this book brings them a fraction of the joy they have brought me.

Click here to find the book on Amazon. Currently, the book is only available on Kindle. The reason? Kindle allows authors to self-publish with an insanely convenient platform. Also, digital publishing allowed me to offer the book for only $0.99.  Want me to make printed copies? Want the book available in other digital formats? Let me know in the comments area.





The Why, Of the Who What When…

those with abysmal handwriting have been given a clear voice thanks to this machine.

those with abysmal handwriting have been given a clear voice thanks to this machine.

I sit here now with a peculiarity that alights my motivation. I am uncharacteristically tired for this time of day, and I’d like nothing more than to rest in an armchair and waste the next few hours on some mindless television program. However, I find it almost impossible to fight an urge to write. Perhaps the most wholly remarkable aspect of my atypical affliction is that I really have nothing of note to write about. Staring at my hands as they dance across the keys I am stricken by a vision, as though my fingers were mere cogs in a larger machine, thrust into menial life only to be overshadowed by the larger function of the machine itself. I feel a simmering disappointment in my own disability to discover what may prove to be the function of this particular drivel. Seconds seem like minutes, minutes hours, and hours days as the time ticks on while I sit watching myself type for apparently no reason. It is only after an agonizing hour that I realize I am in fact writing because, I must.

It is only now that I have been stricken by the notion that writers must feel a call to tell stories akin to the proverbial “call of the wild”. Deep within us all there resides a pool of pristine prose that we supply, day in and day out, with observations, fanciful twists of reality, and our own perceptions of how something may occur. Today, I looked deep into the chasm of my chronicles and found it difficult to net a morsel of true sustenance. I looked into the shimmering waters of my wanton narratives and I saw a reflection of myself. One might view this reflection as the unholy demon vilified by the moniker “writer’s block” For a time, I thought to be afflicted so, but I now understand that, for me, it is a call to understand why I write in the first place.

I write because my mother spent the majority of her nights reading my brother and me to sleep when we were children. I write because of Walt Disney’s ability to infuse magic into all aspects of a child’s life. I write because of Michael Crichton and the wonderful worlds that he lay bare on the page. I write because an old woman once convinced me she was a witch. I write because I still attribute noises in the woods to elf’s, fairies, and goblins. I write because Steven Spielberg and George Lucas made films. I write because there is more to life than what we can see or touch. In short, I write because there are times when there is nothing to write about. In those times, it is important to remind ourselves that stories often lie in the most unlikely of places. Whether we write, speak, or film, stories told vividly, and punctuated by love, may be the very reason life is so very wonderful at all. This is why I write.