It isn't just that I write. I burn. I write more words than some people speak in a day. My record is 7,000 words in a single afternoon, and I doubt even that will stand for long.
And I want to publish. Oh, how I want to publish. Writing fiction distracts me like uneven cracks in the bricks whip OCDers over the head. I sit in class in college, and every last word funnels through The One All Important Question:
Could this help me write?
And if the answer is yes:
HMMM, I wonder how I might crash the goofiness of this one random fact from my Origins of the Universe class into (insert compelling character here), and make someone delightful.
You know the experience. What I am here to say moves slightly beyond this.
I love books, and I have set my sight on publishing them prolifically.
I have my ammunition for all of the rejection I receive from agents and editors for the months and years ahead in four words: I believe in myself.
My wife deserves the credit. I have to bow to her and say, "Thank you darling." Because, in the most romantically amazing way, she carried me right through my self-disappointment. Only she and God have stuck with me like that.
I only share that with you for honesty's sake. I want to be as entirely honest as it is possible to be while hiding (mostly) behind a pseudonym.
That journey, from the crash of my existence to the steady publishing career I am so willing to work for, is what I am going to chronicle here.
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