Storyteller

I imagine that one day after I've died, someone will find where I've disappeared to, find my secret, not a deliberate secret, not one I planned keeping to myself but then I didn't write for the pleasure of others but for myself... it's something I did for myself since before I was ten because I enjoyed it, telling stories, developing the story, the people, the history to myself because as I found out as I aged my work was good, my work made me learn and discover, someone would find it all and read it...then perhaps discover its garbage, they would grow cold in the old cabin and light the fire to warm themselves...

Storyteller...

That is what I have always been...

The first time as a child I wrote and I never imagined selling it.

Never have I tried to publish...for money.

It would be like selling myself.

I never imagined selling my work but I do present it complete or incomplete.

I never have I tried to show my work or wondered of another's interest in my work.

I write for me to read what I write.

While there is so much to read for sale but for years stories have become commodities of another's thoughts. A way to sell.

I have never written for money; I have never written to sell. I tell my stories to tell myself stories because I rarely find amazing writing to read in the fiction market.

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