I'm almost fifty. It's weird to write that. Thinking about my life, or what's left of it, I realized that I've worked more than half my years in some sort of office environment. I hate offices. I worked in offices before cubicals were even a spark in their inventor's mind. I used an electric typewriter to type the letters my boss wanted me to send out. Computers, or word processors for that matter, were for the Jetsons. I remember carbon paper and what a pain it was to make a typo. How many of you remember those little round erasers on a wheel with the black bristle brush on the other end? Also, how many of you learned to swear like a sea cook because your three sheets of onion skin carbons were ripped into shreds while erasing said typos using those ancient office artifacts?
But, needless to say, I needed those jobs to survive; pay the rent, eat, play. I also hated every minute of them. That's why I'm going to do what I love best for the next fifty years that, God-willing, remain of my life. I'm going to write. I'm going to write my heart out and hope there's someone out there who wants to read what my somewhat odd and imaginative mind spews forth. I'm going to write ghost stories, because I love to read them. I love true crime too but, yikes, could never write about it. So, if you like ghost stories, or things that go bump in the night, keep an eye out for my book Those Who Wait, coming soon from Devine Destinies. A love story, with some paranormal thrown in. I'll let you know when it's ready.