Friday, February 10, 2017
A year ago I turned 50.
In earlier years I longed to be an author. When I was fourteen my parents got me an old Royal manual typewriter for Christmas. Pounding away for years, I produced short stories, plays, poetry, and eventually, at age eighteen, my first novel. This was 1984. In 1987 I wrote the first half of a very ambitious novel; 1999 I did the same on the different theme. Both were abandoned.
All were derivative of the writers who made an impression on my teenage years. All the novels, short stories, and hundreds of poems meant a lot to me, and I often wished I ciould develop the self-discipline to see the projects through. But it was always easier to procrastinate at a certain point, telling myself I would get to work the next day. Eventually the desire to "get to work" went away, and that was a relief.
Along the way, I dropped out of college twice, dropped out pf the communist movement, and would have dropped out of marriage had it not been for the love and incredible patience of a good woman.
Not until my forties, when we took in and began raising my HFA grandson, did I realize that I have been suffering (yes, suffering is the right word) from undiagnosed High Functioning Autumism my entire life. All the coping skills I empirically developed, as well as the condition itself, sabotaged every attempt I made at long term plans and goals in my life. I always chocked it up to low moral fiber and lack of intestinal fortitude, but now I think those were symptoms of the underlying problem.
All of which is a contextual preface to saying, Welcome to my new blog.
Here you will find my intermittent attempts to explore and celebrate what interests me in fiction and other media. Though I am a Marxist, there will not be a lot of theoretical word salads on display. Critical theory, like the Bible, is something for which I have no appetite.