Who the frock am I? Where do I begin? Am I middle aged? Over the hill or just cresting it? The shit caught in someone's shoe or the shoe itself? All good questions of doubt and insecurity...wonder and denial. I guess first and formost I'm me. The good and the bad, the black and the white, the weak and the strong. I love to live within the limitless worlds in my head and then try to place these worlds on a paper landscape. They're never as rich, or with as much depth on paper as they seem in my head. The pen and pad, for me, reduces a 3D imagination to a 2D reality. Am I a good writer? I would guess not. I choose the wrong words, the wrong locations, the wrong characters, the wrong titles, I could go on an on, but is there any point to? Writing is my mistress, my guilty pleasure, my home away from home, although I don't get to visit as often as I'd like. As painful as it is, I wouldn't stop doing it for anything in the world. It haunts me at night, the voices clang about in my skull, screaming to get out. I couldn't stop if I tried.
Who the frock am I? I'm a parent of 2 amazing children. As characters bang about in my mind, these 2 bang around outside it. They splash color upon my life, keep me grounded, keep me young, give me drive and ambition, a reason to believe that the world is still good. They are the reason I write and wake up in the morning. They are my breath and my devotion.
Who the frock am I? I'm just a guy.
@onemundanelife
