I didn’t have many friends growing up. A couple but I never really found myself desiring the company of others. I was satisfied with myself. Granted I did have “friends” like any other child but I spent a great deal of my time alone. I did not invent imaginary friends. No, instead I invented imaginary worlds. Ones of monsters and dragons, beasts and terrors, usually loosely based upon whatever childish show I was watching at the time.
As time passed I grew more interested in sharing my worlds. The thing about my friends is they did not hang out with me because I was particularly nice or friendly, but I always had the most elaborate pretend games to play. Ones that tried our bravery and made us warriors. We fought aliens and were aliens. The forests of my sleepy little town were desolate jungles of a ruined world. One that only I think I ever appreciated. My friends kind as they were tried to see what I saw. At least I was entertaining.
When I arrived at high school I had completely solidified my mind that I was going to become an artist. No question about it. I was an artist and that was what I would be. I had moderate success in the field too. I wanted to work on video games doing concept art; so off to the internet I went. I got caught up in a scam or two like any naive kid would. I used to draw sloppy comics of wacky and weird adventures based around myself in some dystopian sci-fi setting. It made no sense but was the rambling fictions of a complete and total self-centered teenager.
Now that I look at it I can hardly believe I wrote that stuff. Those pages are the kind of corny that I could never hope to achieve these days. Once I got out of school I traveled to where my heart took me. That happened to be thousands of miles and I don’t regret the time I spent out west. I had my solitude I craved and I enjoyed meeting and experiencing new people.
It was in those days that I found myself going through an alchemical change mentally. I stopped watching TV and unplugged from society. I began actually reading books something I woefully avoided prior to my poordom of working life. It helped that I worked in a bookstore, well entertainment store, it does not much matter I suppose. I knew I would never work as an artist. To be honest I started finding the professional life of art difficult. I had been taking commissions and it just did not pay the bills. I also grew tired of the tragically hard amount of work without being able to really tell a story. Growing my admoration of those with the talents (patience) to create graphic novels.
I knew that I wanted to tell stories, but I had to understand what exactly I would write. So I began writing ideas for stories. Years went by…
It was not until I entered college that I considered the prospect of becoming a writer. I had experienced about eight years on my own and developed a morbid fear of death. A fear I still hold very close to my heart; I mean that in the most literal of ways too. I found myself writing often to calm my nerves. It did not matter what I would write I just wrote. Though I had this idea for a series that had been growing all my life. I like to think it grew with me. It came to a point though when it got, big… real big, too big. So I severed a chunk of it and then there was two… I stood before the monsters and they battled for my time. It was in those months that I saw my world was about to be snuffed out and I had not made my mark on the world yet.
So I refused to go and here I am today writing this biography about myself. I love myself in a dramatic kind of way but writing about myself has some difficulty. It’s something I do not enjoy as much as anyone that knows me would think. So this is how I got to this point. It is in these days I make all those childhood stories of worlds unknown legible to others. This is why I chose to be an author of fiction.