Well, since I got my first post under my belt, I figured I should introduce myself. My name is John Connors. I’m 29 years old. I live in Pennsylvania with my wife, Jaime, and our yellow lab angel, Daisy Mae. I write stories, some short, some long. Most of my stories, however, are wallowing in the darkness of my file cabinet, suffering from very low self-esteem and licking their wounds from the battering rounds they had endured from the submission process.
When I was ten years old or so, I wrote my first story. Even though I can’t remember its title, my brain does recollect these two little tidbits of information: First, the story detailed an apocalyptic battle between an invading horde of giant, alien robots and the heroic fourth graders of Green Valley, Pennsylvania as they fought for control of the town. And second, I’m pretty sure that it sucked.
However, except for the occasional dirty word scrawled with a Sharpie marker across the mirrors of my high school’s bathrooms, my creative writing output for the next ten or eleven years had culminated with that robot story. I didn’t write a single word of fiction during my teen years. It wasn’t until I was in my early twenties that I began to write again.
And I think I know why that is.
Growing up, I never thought a career as a writer was possible. Writing, to me, was an amazing skill done by rich and extraordinary people with superhuman powers—a position in life that a poor kid from Pittsburgh could never achieve. Watching my father drag his tired, aching body home from work each day, covered in dirt and soot, and still flat broke at the end of the week only served to reinforce the idea that writing, for me, was a dream unattainable. Kids like me didn’t grow up to be writers. They grew up to be laborers, ditch diggers, scraping out a meager living by the strength of their backs and hands, late on rent and always chasing the mighty dollar. They didn’t go to college, and they certainly didn’t entertain millions with the power of their words.
So, I gave up on it. But I never forgot about it. In the back of my mind, in the depths of my deepest thoughts, a single tendril of the writing dream still writhed. Its pulse may have been weak, but it was always there, beating faintly, still alive.
Fast forward into my early twenties when I started reading fifty, sixty books a year and soon, I began to write again. I don’t know what changed for me. I don’t have a singular moment in my life that I can look back upon and say, “Ha-ha! That’s when it all came together!” Why does a person write? I really don’t have an answer.
All I know is that when I don’t write, my attitude changes. I become moody, bitter and my outlook on my life and the world dims darkly. Writing is a kind of release for me, and it is much cheaper than therapy.
I didn’t fully escape the imminent fate that I saw for myself when I was a kid. I am a laborer, scraping out a meager living. I didn’t go to college. I don’t have degrees with fancy lettering and sweeping autographs from some self-important dean up on my wall. Instead, I have a poster of Travis Bickle, looking all cabbie psychotic above my desk and a framed copy of my first published story adorning the opposite wall of my tiny writing space. And you know what, I think my wall thanks me. I think it prefers Travis Bickle. I know. It told me.
Eventually, I developed some confidence in the words I’d put down on paper and in 2006, I began writing and submitting fiction for publication. It’s been almost four years since then, and I haven’t achieved much. In many, many, many ways, writing full-time is still a pipe dream. So far, my writing has earned me only twenty-five bucks, but that doesn’t discourage me. I love writing. Always have. It just took me a long time to realize that even a no-nothing kid from Pittsburgh could, at least, give it a shot.
If you check out my bibliography page, you’ll see that I have had a few stories published. It is nothing to climb to the rooftop and shout about, but it is a start, something solid to build upon. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. Over and over and over again…
That’s why when I look up at my header, I cringe and have the sudden urge to change it. The Homepage of Author John Connors, it states proudly. It sounds rather pretentious. Am I an author? My writing doesn’t pay the bills, so I don’t know. I’ve thought about changing it, but my wife won’t let me. She says that I AM an author, and that I should get used to saying it. At first, I disagreed with her and we argued over it. But as you can see, it is still there. As a man approaching his second wedding anniversary, I am soon discovering that few battles with my wife are worth fighting, and I should immediately give in and raise the white flag of surrender.
Currently, I have four stories out on submission and I’m working on a few more. Deadlines for several anthologies are soon approaching. I need to get to work now if I hope to finish at least one story on time. As of last night, I have about 1,500 words written for what may turn out to be my first novel. I don’t know. We’ll see.
My wife is spending the day with some friends, and the house is quiet. Time to click out of this, turn off the television, crank up the stereo and get to work…
Coffee first.
Then work.
If you made it to this point, then I commend you. Thanks for reading.
See ya later.
