For an amateur, I’ve written a lot over the years; mostly in private journals, and I kept a blog back in the day when blogs were in vogue. I’ve loved books since I began reading as a child. I grew up in the house of a preacher, educator, historian, and author (all the same guy). We had books—lots of books.

I am told that I was a bright, precocious kid. My parents used to lend me to adult couples with no children on Sunday afternoons. I don’t know if the experience inspired them to have children or warned them against it. We moved a lot when I was growing up. The social upheaval was tough on my five siblings and me, but I think it built a talent in us for adaptability and survival. Making friends was always easy for me, but hanging in the circle of cool kids wasn’t in the cards. Cool kids had roots; they didn’t move around.

Both of our parents worked. We were given a lot of leash. I had a hungry mind, two feet, and a strong sense of independence; wherever we moved I could find a library within walking distance from home (“walking distance” was generously defined for us back then). Books were always a companion to me growing up.

In high school, I tested “gifted” in reading and comprehension and put in accelerated classes. Somewhere along that episode, I was given an IQ test. I think I scored a 128. Higher than average but no Einstein. There’s a difference between testing high and actually applying one’s “gifts” to real life. I think the testing only proved that I liked to read and that I could understand a lot of what I read.

I don’t know that a talent for reading necessarily extends into a talent for writing. When college came, I didn’t fully understand that reading and writing weren’t equivalent arts, and liking to read didn’t carry the promise of writing anything readable. Nevertheless, I signed up as a journalism major … for a week. It was a lot of work; not what I imagined. As a matter of fact, college seemed to be a lot of work and not what I imagined. To the disappointment of those who thought they saw a spark in me, I dropped out after a year of majoring in screwing around. I picked up college again in fits and starts in young adulthood, but nothing serious. Finally, at thirty-two years old, while mopping a factory floor at 3 AM on a Sunday for $8.00 an hour, it occurred to me that completing my college career may be something worth looking into. Three years later, the cap and gown weren’t quite as dashing as they would have been fifteen years earlier, but I wore them proudly.

Not a lot of this little autobiography so far has to do with my writing career. And it won’t for quite a while. Although I had “majored” in journalism for a week, took a lot of writing and literature classes, and kept a journal for years, writing remained on the periphery. It was something I practiced privately at odd hours, something I reserved for “someday.” I spent the next thirty years building businesses, something “occupational” I would do first, before embarking on a life of writing. Ironically, the last business I built was a publishing company; giving other people’s stories to the world. I don’t regret that at all; I enjoy it. But for me, it was standing at the edge of the pool, being there with the swimmers, but shy about diving in. I’ve heard that people who have a dream but are afraid to pursue it often choose a career adjacent to that dream, to be close to it, but not in play. Guilty, I’m afraid.

So now at sixty-five, here I am. Some of what you will read here may be from private or public writings as far back as forty years, or it may be as recent as this morning. I’ll try to leave an editor’s note as to its origin. As I wrote in my journal just this morning, whether or not the world accepts my work isn’t my responsibility, but it is my responsibility to share it with the world. I hope you find it worth your while.