I fucking hate talking about myself.

…………...ok.

I once considered myself a writer. Not so much anymore. Most days I wake up with every intention of booting up my laptop and hammering out words with the ease I could a decade ago. Back when I knew my future lay in writing. When I knew I had a future to long for. And the words flowed from me like breath across my lips.

Now, I wake up, and I’m tired. Not because I needed a longer night’s sleep. No, it’s more than that. I’m just so fucking tired, and I no longer see that future that once seemed so certain.

Even though I always wrote stories as a child; I even wrote a couple plays we acted out for school, I didn’t start seriously writing until the age of 18. It was an escape. My parents had moved from my hometown, and I was with them, no friends, no job, just waiting for college to start. And so I started crafting a fantasy story, just like all the Dragonlance novels I’d grown up with.

It was exciting. And just like that, before I’d even set foot in a single college classroom, I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Which I didn’t need college for……. shit.

I finished my first novel before I was 20. It’s rubbish. Absolute tripe. But it’s mine, and I’m proud of it.

I always viewed writing as an escape. A world I could control. Where even if things went wrong, there was always a purpose behind it. And it was for me. My characters kept me company when I was lonely. If I wanted to laugh, I could write something funny. If I wanted to slay a dragon, I had the strength to fuck that beast up. I could even make myself sad as a way of processing my own complicated feelings about the world and the people in it. Ooof.

And when you’re a quiet introvert, who’s terrified of girls and gets extreme anxiety over any new experiences, the control of writing is a brilliant thing. Of course, as I get older, I realize, that freedom in writing I once craved is less an escape and more of a cage. Because I don’t want to be alone in a small room writing a book. I want to be out experiencing the world with the people I love.

But to do that, you have to put in the work. You have to feel pride in what you produce and who you are. If you don’t love yourself, nobody else will. Blah blah blah. Fucking gag.

For many years now, I’ve tried to accomplish almost anything else in life. I’ve continued to move up the ranks at work, despite it being a job I’ve always been ashamed of. Sorry co-workers….. Still love ya. I’ve traveled the world as best I can and forced myself to experience anything new I might love, no matter how anxiety inducing that can be. I even thought once I might be able to start a family. Silly goose.

Sometimes I wonder if love’s really for me, honestly. When you can’t express your deepest feelings to the person you love the most, when you feel like a fraud every moment you’re in a relationship, filled with anxiety because you worry the next thing you say or do, or more importantly don’t say or do, will cause the whole bottom to fall out: it’s probably best to be alone. And return to that cage. At least….. part-time.

So I made this web site as a way of forcing myself to once again put in the work. I don’t think many, if anyone will read this, but that’s not really what this is about. This is about being able to call myself a writer again. To feel the kind of pride and self-confidence in my work I once did.

And if someone is reading this and happens to enjoy something I’ve posted, reach out and let me know. It’ll mean more than you probably realize.