When I was a kid – and by kid, I mean maybe 20-ish – I wanted desperately to write a book…. Someday…. I never actually attempted to write a book back then.  I wrote – but it was bits and pieces – sort of journal style, sometimes chunks of poetry, mostly just the repetitive rants of a disillusioned, broke, and miserable kid.  Society was my enemy.  My life was my enemy.  I had some grand idea that I had something to share with the world, but the world blocked my attempts, so I got angry at it.

In reality, I had no idea what I wanted to say, no dedication or willpower or follow-through to find a project and stick to it, no clue who I was or who I wanted to be.  Eventually I became an adult and forgot all about it.

Almost two decades later, I had an epiphany.  Actually, it may be more accurate to say I had something of a nervous breakdown.  In any case – I remembered I wanted to write a book.  And I finally had some fuel for it – some stories to tell and some pain.  So began my attempt at writing a memoir.  It’s not done yet.  Maybe I’ll publish it and maybe I won’t, but that’s not the point.  In this space, I will document my attempts to write in the midst of living my normal life, and see where it all ends up.

I’ve chosen to subtitle this blog “me and my battle with words”.  I chose the word “battle” because I view words as elusive.  At least, I view the task of finding the right words as elusive.  It’s a battle I enjoy, though.  Many brilliant authors have found their own ways to master language, though I imagine they feel as I do when they write – that there’s a battle in there somewhere.