Writing since I was a little kid, I always tried to follow in the footsteps of my big brother. From a very young age I had been introduced to stories and movies and ideas that would have been considered too mature for me at the time. But I loved it. I loved having my imagination stoked at such a young age. I played like any other kid, but more often you would find me pacing back and forth in front of my parents' house living inside of grand stories of superheroes or monsters or whatever wild idea would come to mind. Sometimes i would plop down with a notebook and write them down. Usually I would be drawing a comic book. It wasn't until my later years (and treading unwillingly into my forties) that I realized that not only had I always had passion for writing but had a knack for it too. I remember when I was in the seventh grade and we had to read Lord of the Flies for our english course. When we were done, our final assignment was to write one more chapter to the book. The day after turning them in, my english teacher (Mr. Obrien: taught us the phrase "Don't assume anything because you'll make an ASS out of U and ME when I was in the sixth grade) told the class that there was one story in particular that was so well done that not only was he going to read it aloud to the whole class but he planned to use it as an example for years to come. Much to my surprise, that story was mine. Since then I had a smattering of moments of literary "success" but nothing that had ever made me feel like I was "making it". So I never pursued it with any kind of vigor. It was always a "what-if" thought that quickly lost out to all the other anxieties and day to day struggles I called life. So now, at forty three years old, I've finally decided that maybe it was time to stoke those flames again. Hopefully, with some patience, this will finally take me somewhere other than the worlds in my imagination.