When Herman Melville Died...

...he was so penniless and forgotten that in his obituary, they called him Henry Melville.

I write.
You have read it, here. So, you know.

Sometimes I use sarcasm to be funny and even-shocking.
But, my point always gets there.

For many years in my late 20's to mid 30's I wanted to make a career out of this writing, and aspired to be a fictional character by name of Carrie Bradshaw. Yes, I know. As I said...she is fictional. But, while Candace Bushnell may have written her-it was the life of a character I wanted, and not the life of the writer.
I wanted to live in a big city, wear fashions that stunned on the big city sidewalks. I wanted to wear $1200. a pair Christian Louboutin's and drink Cosmopolitans and have this amazing group of friends with equally successful careers and money to burn.
I wanted an alternate life. Far removed from where I was-literally.
At the time, I measured only the bleak portrait on the outside looking in.
Single mom, lonely, man-less, poor, living in government supplied housing and sadly enough, following a local band on the weekends for a social life.
Bleak.

I wanted the life of a fabulous writer. And the talent to pull it off.
I wanted to be the newly crowned J.K. Rowling and re-invent myself.

Obviously, it didn't happen.

Things turned out much differently for me.

Hold on a minute-before you find me pretty and ungrateful...I never said I regretted anything. I don't.
I happen to love my life, for the most part. There are always if's and's and but's...
BUT...in the greater scheme of things-my life is pretty good for the most part. The things that suck, are mostly of my own doing and I am trying to fix them.

But writing.

It really never left me. The word vomit, as I so eloquently call it-always seems to stick, like bad velcro.
So, I make words and my world (write about what you know, they say) on an online diary. This blog, and many others.

Also, I am writing a novel, fiction, horror-suspense in a Sandford or Koontz style.
Lots of violence, language, and shock factor.
Not what Carrie would write, I'm sure. But because a lot of my life has been a horror story...it fit.
And as I write, I think about why I ever developed a talent for something that won't make me rich, or famous, or even known?
They call us starving artists for a reason, I guess.

The point is...
For all of my want of the spotlight for all of these years, I realized it didn't matter.
I write the blather for me, and whatever cathartic properties it lends to my soul and my heart.

And someday when I publish-(probably self publish) I will dedicate the words to my son and all of you-the few that read this blog and wonder about me, and why I am like I am. And why I say the things I say, and do the things I do. The genuine interest and curiosity of the people who take time for all of this word vomit.
The non famous word vomit.
The penniless word vomit.
The unknown word vomit.

The promise of something else. Even if I don't care either way.

Thanks readers...for finding me non-famous. But loving me anyway.

Just make sure, friends...that you clean up the mess after you visit.
Vomit can leave an odor.

XOXO,
Henry Melville.