I’ve been a writer since before I could spell. I recall lining up all of my toys on the floor of the bedroom of the rickety old row house apartment where I grew up, creating these complex narratives that had their own continuity. Some of those narratives were dramas, mysteries and a lot of them were my first love, science fiction.
My mother used to read stories out of an oversized book of fairytales(not the Disney versions).Stories full of magic, wizardry and not-so happily ever afters. One day my father bought me my first Superman comic, all full of flying men in red and blue tights and Lex Luthor in his green battle armor. He read part of the story to me, giving me the desire to create something that incredible.
And then I turned four, when I learned to spell, read and write(Thanks to sesame street). It was all over from there. Creativity flowed through my veins like my very own blood, thicker and more eternal and wet always a part of me.
I went through grade school and later high school still with writing very much in my bones and blood and soul. For much of my life as a child, I was a loner, though not by choice. Like anyone growing up I felt that no one quite understood me or even cared to. Eventually, I came to the conclusion to stop waiting for someone to understand me and my dreams and just be me.
I went on to high school, College and finally graduate school. And still l writing remained a part of me, I self-published my First novel at age twenty-three. The first of many manuscripts to make it past the hard drive on my computer. I worked a whole summer at a plant that assembled chain link fences to make the money I needed to do it.
And then I got hurt. I ended up in a three- day coma and woke up unable to stand light. The pain was more spiritual and psychological than it was physical. Still, I continued to write. Unable to work in my chosen career as a graphic artist, unable to earn the money to self- publish. Surrounded by doubters, haters and saboteurs, I continued to write until I published my second novel. Some thirteen years after the first. Why? Writing is my passion—my dream. I don’t care if people don’t understand it. I don’t care if anyone ever reads a word I’ve written. I love to write. It is my passion— my dream. My dream is a reality. My message to you is that your dreams, whatever they are, should be your reality no matter what. Your dreams must be a part of you. You have to nurture them, feed and want them like your very next breath. And never, ever let anyone or anything take your breath away.
