Scribble, Scribble

I decided to be a writer when I was 14 or so. The problem with deciding on such a thing at such a young age is that I never got good anything else. (Many people would suggest that I should've been a welder, that maybe my writing skills aren't that good.) I remember a family vacation about that time, and my aunt asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. "A writer," I said. She kind of looked at me and replied, "Why."

It was a good question, one that I'm not sure I've ever answered.

What have I written? Many things, really. I actually write for a living, though it's rather--no, very--drab corporate writing of the technical nature. No one really reads it, of course, but I figure it's a living. The same thing goes for blogs, I think--not many people actually read them. I mean, how much can you read in a day?

I have also written three novels: The Good; The Bad; and The Ugly. Well, those aren't really the titles, but that's how I've come to think of them. I started another novel a couple years ago, but I got to about 20-thousand words and realized I had nothing to say. I've also written several short stories, some of which do not embarrass me, as well as many poems. In fact, let's be brave--here's a poem.

Wanderlust

for Daniel

There were years when I was all motion.
Dust settled one day and grew excited the next.
Age changed me, of course, much as it will change you.
This is how life works, what my father and grandfathers
tried to articulate from behind whiskey glasses and cigarettes.
I didn’t hear them, just as you don’t hear me—this, too, is how life works.
Some things, though, you should remember: your mother’s birthday;
how we gather at Christmas; your brothers’ voices on Saturday morning.
Hear these if nothing else.