In view

I’d decided for my love of writing when I was 14. Somewhere deep inside myself, I’d wanted to do stories. To make them, to grow them, to tell them. Every time I read a good story, one which marveled its reader into a spellbound trance of gravity defying, imagination warping dance of fiction and words, I had a desire to write it. The way language could be imbued with that invisible (and sometimes, stifling) flash of narration, fascinated me.

My first attempts at writing were typical boy stories. Space aliens, wars and invasions, Italian gangsters and Chinese gunfights; basically, just a heck of alotta violence and blood. My first real story, that contained a glimpse of the mother lode of the beautifully synchronicity of carefully arranged words, was written in 2001.

“In the Natural Course of Inquisition”, tells the metaphysical tale of a middle-age psychotherapist who is visited by Cupid. The latter, we learn, has arrived for an appointment because of an accident ‘at work’. As the therapy session continues, a second tale unfolds just outside the psychotherapist’s office, which finally cumulates and interplays with the main narrative in the final scene. In the end, we see that Cupid, though cured of his crepuscular predicament, is a victim of humanity in a much more ironic fashion.

That same year also heralded my first blog entry. Indeed, the sheer vastness of cyberspace has allowed for a calcifying sustenance in my writing. Over the years, this gradual expanse and accumulation of words on words, has served to eke out and affirm my love of transforming mere words and sentences into the shafting magical phenomena of working prose.

I blog stories. I make them, I grow them, and I tell them.

Occasionally.

I live them as well.