I'm a fatnasty writer. I began writing to impress girls. While that didn't exactly work, I accidentally developed a love of writing. And like many aspiring writers, I had this emorphous story in my head that refused to travel the distance from my head, to my hands, through the keys of my keyboard and out into the world. But persistance, a lot of reading, some really supportive friends, and over time that spectre of a story began to take form. It's an epic tale. And as a reductionist, I fought that reality for a long time. Which is ironic, when you think about it. For so long the story refused to cooperate, then once it did, I rejected it. We weren't on speaking terms.
I wanted to write a single book, tell that tale in a really artful manner. Several attempts, and years later, I gave in. I accepted it. This story needs space and breadth. Some tales are too nuanced to tell in 300 pages. This is one. We, the story and I, came to an accord. I'll tell it the way it wants to be told. Or said without all the anthropomorphism, I think taking this story as a whole reveals so much more about the character at the heart of it then trying to rush it.
I chose to start this tale with p On Their Own.