Friday, November 2, 2007


In the blog Words From The Aether, they are soliciting book ideas. Most of the ideas are humorous takes on simple ideas. They want to see what hole in the literary market exists. I really doubt there are many holes. Have you been to Amazon or Barnes and Noble lately? Type in just about any word and there's a book on it or about it. It makes me wonder why I write? As a reader, I have an insatiable appetite for the next great read. Like anyone, I have subjects that appeal to me and once I finish a wonderful masterpiece, like food, I'm planning my next meal. In this case it will be a meal of words prepared by a master word chef, just for me, the reader.
So, I guess, being a writer is a natural extension for me. I've been writing as long as I've been reading. When I won a writing contest in sixth grade I thought, "finally I found something I can do." I was the quiet kid who was allergic to sports and liked weird things. I actually thought being called weird was a complement. Not one to follow the idioms of the natural order, I read Mad magazine, Tales From The Crypt and loved old horror films. I could relate to the poor misunderstood Frankenstein. Not in looks, so stop thinking that, but in the ostracized mutant that is Frankenstein. OK, I was the pudgy type, which in my mind, made me a soul mate for Frankenstein. Oh what a young mind will create in his little imaginary world.
I've raised on daughter and almost raised a son. They are fine little individuals in their own right. But you know what? I'm still waiting to grow up. As a child I was told it would happen. I would one day put aside my toys and enter the adult world of responsibility. I became responsible, but I've never felt grown up. I write this as I look at my sci fi figures and gargoyles aligning my desk. Here's to eternal youth, if only in the mind.