Strip Tease No. 1: A Reflection Enveloped in Lyrical Prose (Masturbatory)

I have been many things, up to this point--my middle age--a janitor, a shopclerk, a knifesalesman, and a frontline orderly; but, for a good 13 years, I was a counselor. I langoured in deconstructing errors in thought, communication and gesture, but rarely to my own benefit. The milieu itself flawed, the program a set up, the clients dismissive and static, it has been a relief to leave it behind, wadded up like used tissue, next to my Master's degree.

The experiences, no more than memory and countless reports and interviews clogging my harddrive--a waste laden park john of a laptop--have, nevertheless, afforded me a slew of personal trauma to rape for stories and character development.

So, I can't complain.

I'm a writer now. I must tell myself this, daily. I'm a writer.

Now, that's not to say that I haven't always been a writer. I love words; they circle around my head as I type, twittering like blunt-force nightingales. I was a lonely-only, a single child in a big family, full of big southern personalities. My mother was, and is, a ravenous book consumer. And, I did what came natural: read, myself, and created worlds. These worlds tended toward the dark and depressing, or like Sergey Lukyanenko wrote in his Nightwatch (brilliant-check it out), the gloom.

My current work is split between a young adult novel about the recently departed and the aforementioned Zombie Happy Hour Mystery. I'm so hard at work at it, I have time to beat myself off on a blog--Jesus! but, I can waste time.

Back at it…