Late Night Rambling

I’ve been writing a number of years. What sparked my imagination was hearing stories told by my great grandfather as I was growing up. He was from Germany and had moved to the United States shortly after World War 2 to Chicago, then eventually Florida, so he had a slew of stories to tell. Everything ranging from classic fairy tales to dark stories involving the war, to German fables that I grew to love and learned lessons from. He was my best friend growing up, and the light of my life. I was born on his birthday, and he made it known that I was the best birthday gift he had ever received. I loved him a great deal, and I was hurt a great deal when he was passed away, but he gave me the greatest gift; a gift of writing. He taught me how and gave me the spark and awe of wonderment. He let my imagination run free. He explored the worlds I wanted to create and talked to the characters I wanted to talk to and help me give them life by putting a pen in my hand and telling me, “Write, Liebling.” 

I was never classically trained. I never went to school for that sort of thing, and in some ways, I regret it. I wish I had because maybe it would’ve opened me to another world of possibilities, but at the same time, would it had made any difference in the muse that inspires me? I applaud those that have done it. I’m thankful that they had the money to achieve such a goal, but I was never lucky enough. I grew up poor, but I’m just thankful enough to be given the gifts that were given to me, regardless.

Sometimes I have fears though that I’ll never be good enough, but I guess everyone has these fears. I sometimes fear that my stories will fall flat and that my characters won’t touch people on the levels that they’ve managed to touch me, after all, Lying with the Devil was written in my younger years, and my writing has drastically improved since then. I wished, in some ways, that I had rewritten it, possibly improved it somehow, but those that had read the manuscript told me not to. One, in particular, told me this: “You know how you have a favorite movie? What if someone took that, changed it because they felt like it wasn’t good, despite millions loving it, then tried to push it as the original. You wouldn’t like it at all, would you? Now leave this story alone, or I’ll hobble you like the author in Misery.” 

That was my brother, by the way. I was threatened by my brother. My little brother, at that. 

I could see his point and I gave it to the publisher, as is, and the rest is history. People are buying it. Sites are writing articles about it. People are talking about it; loving it, giving it very heartfelt reviews, which I love, by the way. It all feels surreal. I never thought when I was five, scribbling the word ‘apple’ down on a piece of paper for my great grandpa, that I would be, later, thirty-two and writing my heart out for people. I’ve developed a thick skin from it though. I’ve come to learn that it’s art and not everyone will like it. Some will read it and say, “This is pure shit.” Some will read it and say, “Meh.” Some will read it and say, “This is an amazing book!” It’s all perspective, I guess. I can only sit back and painstakingly watch people judge it from afar and try and let my anxiety settle itself. I’ve also learned to surround myself with supportive people; loving people, that have my back and cheer me on, no matter the odds, but tell me the truth and not sugar coat it either when I need it. I was never one to enjoy people beating around the bush. I’m an anxiety-ridden hairless ape at its core and telling me things sweetly only makes it worse, people.

I’ll try and write some more when I find the time. I hope you’ve enjoyed my first post; my first ramblings in the middle of the night. There’s more to come, I can assure you.