I’ll start this by saying that I’m not finished yet. The publication may be in your hands, on your screen or what have you, but I’m still writing, thinking, and developing. This shouldn’t bring any less credibility to what I have written; I just want to expose the lens through which you are receiving these words. Many of these were written while I attended a university and lived in the same town I had lived in for almost 20 years, with a few months in other places for interesting summer jobs that my adventurous soul told me to take. I have done strange, scary, questionable, humble, arrogant, informed, spontaneous and planned things, each being its own category of “thing” and encompassing anything from joining a community service fraternity and quitting it to spending three consecutive days under the influence of alcohol because I could; from painting houses in New Orleans to watching the person next to me struggle and not offer help.
I’m a person. We both are, you and I, and I want you to remember that. Remember that I haven’t finished yet, in any sense of the phrase, and I wouldn’t want to delude myself into thinking that this is the completed formation of my thoughts or for you to think that it is either. Writing will never be all encompassing, as much as we hope for it to be. It will never fully satisfy what you were hoping it would, because we just don’t have quite enough words or time for that. And even if you wrote a piece that you felt said everything you wanted it to, someone would interpret it differently. Because while you and I have read, done, and experienced—and maybe you’re 23 as well and joined a fraternity and helped sometimes but not others—we have not read, done, and experienced all the same things.
In the end, I might be trying to justify what turns out to be an incomplete or unsatisfying collection of works, or explain away any doubts these essays may provoke, but I don’t really know. And that’s O.K., you know, to not know. That’s O.K.
For years I've considered starting a blog, but bounced around thoughts such as, no one is going to want to read what's going on inside your head, and sometimes, your thoughts are unoriginal, and even, what's the point. So, recently, I re-realized that I write for myself. I've been writing ever since I learned how, usually multiple times a week. Usually in a private journal, but sometimes I'll write poems or essays about what's going on in my world or the world at large. I have decided to post some of these writings publicly, and am not looking for a response of any kind. On the other hand, if you happen to think I have potential and want to pay me money to write more words, let me know.