The curious case of my life in books
I never wanted to write books.
I grew up wanting to write comics. Not necessarily super hero comics (although my 13-year-old self would have loved it), but just comic stories. Horror, crime, low-volume dramas about ironic 20-somethings, whatever. I just wanted a piece of it. Somewhere along the way, comics ended up in my rearview mirror. There are a lot of reasons for that, but I won’t go into them now. Instead I stumbled into short story writing, and for one reason or another, stayed. From there, I stumbled into novel writing. Then one novel seeded the idea for another novel, then another. I’m now in the process of drafting two other novellas. I still don’t quite know how it happened.
This is why I don’t feel fit to talk about books, most of the time. It doesn’t feel like I have much to say about an industry I never wanted to be a part of. (That and I kind of hate book blogs, but that’s neither here nor there.) I don’t even feel the urge to have any of my novels published properly, not really. The idea makes me a bit queasy, like I’ve just crashed some fancy wedding reception and I’m waiting for hotel security to chase me out. People say that I do things with some literary sensibilities, but I wouldn’t really know. I feel like the fifth wheel, the odd man out. I shouldn’t even really be here.
This year, I’m working on getting back to my roots. I have at least one comic I would like to do with my friend Anna Yoken, about Real Dolls and body horror and hookers tied to kitchen chairs. It should be fun, if nothing else. I have another comic in the works called Black Out, about werewolves and bikers and gypsies, but I don’t have an illustrator for that project yet. I might not find one. We’ll see how it goes. I just know that I’d like to get back to what I know, and what feels right. It feels like a good time to try.
But as long as I keep having ideas for short stories and books, I’ll keep writing them. I just, you know — don’t know why.