First Post... Why am I doing this?

Great question. "Why not?" would be the appropriate response. I'm going back to the keyboard and attempting to delve back into the "World of Writing." (Which coincidentally gets you about as much action as delving back into the Word of Warcraft.)

I've held a plethora of jobs over the past few decades, but I've always come back to writing. It's my first love (aside from Paula Sheitle in the seventh grade) and my dream career. But alas, my first love is a finicky b***** and although I have constantly sought her out over the years, we seem to have only been destined for one night stands or week long binges.

In the fourth grade, I wrote my first short story. It was based on "The Man Who Kept The Secrets," a book my father was reading at the time. When I say "based,"I mean I took the title and wrote my own story that would encompass it. It was the saga of a boy who shared his deepest secrets with a humble store owner. Secrets wrote with agony such as not liking to go to his aunt's house because she pinched his cheeks and smelled kind of funny. Well, in my humble opinion, it was a freakin' masterpiece. This five-page, neatly printed manuscript would be my ultimate achievement as a nine year old; my crowning glory. Until, that is, classmate Billy Martin told me writing stories was for girls, spit on the paper and pretended to wipe his butt with it. Ouch! It was like he was wiping his butt with the still-beating heart he had just ripped from my chest. Luckily the fates intervened and Mrs. Miracle, the teacher (real name I swear), scolded Billy Big Butt (not his real name) and displayed my novella on the Chalkboard of Fame for all to see! It was glorious moment. Until, that is Billy heard me call him Billy Big Butt and beat me up after school. But no problem, I was on my way!

I wrote off and on throughout school and in high school I unveiled another masterpiece. It was the saga of boy who runs way from home and lives on the streets, fending for his own survival on a daily basis. Like Michelangelo, it was my "David." I should pause to explain that "David" was actually the name of my short story and my David wore clothes unlike the aforementioned masterpiece. But I digress. I took typing in summer school and as a project, the teacher let me type my short story into the school's word-processor and save it their mainframe. I was so happy. I even tossed out the hand written draft pages as I entered them in the system. What could possibly go wrong? Well... unknown to us it was regular procedure to erase the memory before the regular school year began. Yep, 100+ pages of my soul were erased by the touch of a button. Gone. (Glass half full, I did get an "A" in typing thanks to my teacher's guilty conscience!) But it would be years before I wrote again, but that's another story for another time.

Well, b*****, I'm back! And I'm not going anywhere (for a while at least.) I'll be posting some old stuff, some new stuff, some borrowed stuff and some blue... wait. My bad, I was on a roll. Well, whatever happens, it should be interesting so thanks in advance!