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My parents were hard working city kids from Newark N.J. and they were both out of their minds. I spent a great deal of my life brushing it off and pretending things were great but they weren't and here I am amazed that I survived at all. My sister didn't and the jury is still out on my brother although I'm always rooting for him. Writing, for me, is an escape, a way out. I could let myself go in some poem or write a forgettable tune on guitar and for a time i would feel almost normal. Almost, but not quite. I was in the first grade when I wrote my first poem "Tracks in Snow" and then later on I figured out how to write a clever Haiku. When I was committed to rehab at 15 years old (about 2 years before I used any drugs at all), I wrote a novel's worth of poetry and short stories which were summarily thrown away by my mother as garbage and unclean.. Oh well. This may be TMI but it all leads me to here, this place in time where I have written and published my first real work. Work. That's what it really is, was, will be. For years I tried to write something worthy of a next step but I never made the connection to misery and self loathing that makes it possible, for me anyway. When Allan died I had to write about it. I was angry, I felt jipped, and I was finally at a place in my life where I could see a little clearer and grind through the angst. Thank you for taking the time to meet me. I'll see you in my next story.
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