Scribbling

A lot of people (okay, maybe only a few) have asked when I started writing. The easiest answer is: I always have.

When I was a little kid, I loved making up silly stories. My parents suggested I write them down. Once I saw them on paper, I thought they were ridiculous - so I learned to edit. I started looking for words that fit better, worked better.

I’ve always loved reading. When I was about five or six, I lived for presidential biographies. Yes...odd child. Once I discovered the library, I moved on to biographies of famous composers and historical figures.

Mom was an artist, so I had access to lots of books about art and artists. Dad read all sorts of weird stuff, so I dug into that too. I have to credit the old man for my lifelong love of Conan Doyle, although to this day, I’ve never understood his fascination with Tolkien and The Lord of the Rings. I can appreciate the work itself, but the story always struck me as a little too “by the numbers.”

By age ten, I’d discovered Stephen King. Boom. Done. His eye for character details landed with me. He seemed to notice the same things about people that I did: the state of their clothes, the brand of cigarettes they smoked. Sure, the stories were great, but it was that attention to detail that won me over. I was a hardcore fan until his hyper-prolific period in the ’90s. Gerald’s Game infuriated me. To this day, I haven’t finished it. It was just tedious. Then came that damned Arthurian-wannabe dragon book. I remember throwing it across the room in disgust.

By that point, I was back to biographies...and theology. Yeah, I’ll try anything. Reference books have long been a family favorite. Mom had The People’s Almanac. That collection led me to hundreds of other books. In my own library, I have The New York Times Guide to Essential Knowledge. When I need a quick bit of information on something, that’s still my go-to.

I enjoy books I can read over and over. I like finding new bits every time.

I was first published at fifteen. I made a whopping fifty bucks for a piece of poetry that was hacked and whacked beyond recognition. I didn’t complain because A) it wasn’t exactly “cool” to write poetry, and B) fifty dollars was a lot of money to a kid in 1981. A few years later, when I had my first apartment, that would’ve covered a third of my rent.

I tried my hand at writing for underground magazines, mostly doing reviews. It just didn’t move me. Just my luck, years later I found myself being called on to write reviews again and again. I wrote for anyone who paid me, and even more who didn’t. I suppose it fed my writer’s ego. I can’t even look at that stuff now. And neither should you.

During a particularly lean stretch in life, I landed a gig writing and editing...porn. It was actually good practice, however disturbing the content. For example, I’d receive an email saying, “10,000 words minimum needed. Subject: [insert fetish here].” Or I’d be sent a finished piece with a note that read, “Can you rewrite this into something intelligible? No more than 20,000 words.” I earned maybe ten cents a word. The money sucked. The work - or at least the inconsistency of it - sucked. But it kept the lights on.

Then I stopped.

I tried my hand at blogging, just as a hobby. You’re here, so again, call me Cap’n Obvious. But really, that was about it.

Fast-forward.

In 2007, I had a heart attack. Some funny stories came out of that. People started saying, “You should write a book!” Sorry, never really interested me.

A few years later, a friend was moving and wanted something to listen to on her flight, so I made her an audiobook - just a collection of weird little things I’d written. She loved it. I won’t lie, I had fun with it.

Then I stopped again.

Fast-forward a bit more. 2021. Pandemic. Going nuts at home. I suffered not one but two strokes.

Music came to the rescue, as it usually does for me. My lifelong love of Bulgarian polyphony returned to the forefront. One thing led to another, and I found myself chatting online with newfound friends in Bulgaria. Three cheers for Google Translate. I decided that learning a new language - Bulgarian - might be good for my now-battered brain. The doctors agreed. They suggested Spanish might be easier, but Spanish wasn’t especially useful at the time. Besides, I already know just enough Spanglish to usually avoid getting beaten up.

I concentrated so hard on Bulgarian that I started forgetting English words. The biggest problem was that my Bulgarian was - and still is - too limited to become my primary language, so I needed those now-forgotten English nouns, verbs, adjectives, and so on.

So, I started writing again.

Poems, lyrics, short stories. Nothing fancy. Mostly just for myself. Then I got the idea to write a book on the history of American music, which is still in progress. I kept shelving it because it was too political. Yes, American music history is very political. And an old habit returned:

I overwrite like a madman.

I had to relearn my editing skills. I can knock out 20,000 words in no time, but at least half of them are useless. I tend to repeat myself or reiterate ideas far more than necessary. I guess I’m still struggling - as most writers do - with the never-ending search for the best word.

In early 2025, I started work on my first fiction novel. It grew out of an idea I’d been toying with for more than twenty-five years. After months of writing, rewriting, editing, and rewriting again, I finished it: 65,000-plus words. And it’s terrifying. And, at present, still unpublished.

Since then, I’ve started two more novels and written two complete collections of short stories — my “wheelhouse,” as some might say, although I’ll never understand why. What the hell is a wheelhouse, and why do I need one?

I’m now looking into the wonderful world of publishing. Not unlike the recording industry, NO SIR, don’t like it one bit. It’s scummy, scammy, and worse. So, for now, I’ll keep researching the pros and cons of self-publishing. One of these days, you may be inundated with my written work.

But not today.

If that isn’t bad enough, I still have two novels in progress - one about halfway finished, the other maybe a third of the way there. Then, last night, BAM: another idea hit.

I started with my usual question - “What if...?” - and a ridiculously ginormous flood of ideas came pouring in. I now have a page of notes, summaries, and fragments that’s already over 5,000 words long.

Starting Monday, I’m going to try Stephen King’s method: eight hours a day, aiming for at least six finished pages. Sounds doable. Who knows? One day, you might even get to read it.

Do I ever wonder whether you want to read it?

No. Not really.

Some of us will read damned near anything.