Welcome, Dear Readers, to the first installment of Megalomania Monday, where the topic will be?
You guessed it!
Koala bears dismantling the human way of life, and quite possibly our bodies, via use of their psychic powers.
While that is an important topic (and quite possibly the most fucking awesome thing I have ever written), we’ll have to put that shit aside for the moment.
Megalomania Monday is about my life and whatever the fuck I want to talk about. Why? Two reasons.
- Mondays suck ass and this makes me feel better.
- Someday, I’m going to be a famous author and people are going to ask me about my life. With this, I’ll be able to say, “Well, I’m dead, so you’ll have to go check the archives on my blog.”
So… how will we celebrate me today?
I suppose a great deal of you have been asking me about this… (That’s adorable! He’s pretending people care!)
Why do I Write?
To pay the bills, of course!
(A barrage of laughter hits Edmund J. Asher. Is this a joke or does he truly hope…)
I’ll cut that voice off there… It kind of scared me… That one’s new… It just kept going on…
Anyways, I write because I have to. I was talking to a crowbar recently and it said, “I’m fairly sure there’s a lot of writers for whom story is sort of like an abcess from an inescapable chafe. You keep draining it off but it just keeps filling back up.”
I’ll leave the crowbar’s mistakes intact because Megalomania Monday is about making myself look good and I don’t like it when crowbars outdo me in the realm of metaphor.
That’s like… (He’s struggling for a metaphor… you should hear the garbage running through his mind.) umm… bad.
Ignore the fact that the crowbar’s words also deny me the simple pleasure of being special. Simply one among, “a lot of writers”.
So, moving on, my world (Nyth, if you haven’t been paying attention) and her inhabitants have grown less content being confined to hidden notes. They are demanding to be released from their prison inside my head, given immortality on a public page.
Suits me fine. I want their lives to stop playing on repeat… Or, as is the case for some of them, like a broken record in a horror film.
I write to distinguish myself from my characters. For my sanity. To examine them and come to terms with the aspects of me that led to their creation.
I write because maybe I want some part of me to persist as well. If I die without opening my world to others, not only am I unknown… an entire universe would die with me.
I write to entertain. Hopefully, I serve that purpose. I also hope to inspire in some way… perhaps once you truly begin to see who I am through my writing. Connect with my struggles, be comforted by the fact that you are not alone in how you perceive the world… etcetera, etcetera… I’ll dig deeper into that later.
I write because it has been my one consistent pursuit through many abandoned pursuits.
Though I love it, I had no choice in the matter. In essence, I write because I’m a writer.
It won’t be long until my Authors Group has our Anthology finished. You’ll be able to find that on my books page once available.
Also, I’m backing a Kickstarter, Drabbledark: An Anthology of Dark Drabbles, created by Eric S. Fomley.
I intend to submit a drabble (a story of exactly 100 words) should it meet its goal.
If you are interested in either backing it or submitting a piece of your own, check it out.
Credit to the crowbar for “making” me write this.
Credit to the many voices in my head for being an endless source of material.
Credit to you, Dear Reader, for sticking it out this far. Oh? You actually enjoy this? That is so good to hear! (Ignore his delusions. Tell him what you really think in the comments below. Why do you write?)