Part of the many things one must undertake when being an indie author is writing about yourself.
It’s always a weird task. By nature, you need to be self-promoting. But I think many writers feel a natural humility, a self-effacing tendency that says there are so many more better than me. But, people don’t want to hear about other people when they’re looking at your book. They want to know about you.
Like so many of you, I am a man obsessed with stories.
From the earliest parts of my youth that I can remember, I yearned for imaginary worlds. I created stories and lived them out in my own footsteps, found myself engrossed in fantasy novels, mystery novels, roleplaying games, television shows, perhaps most of all, history.
The world, to me, was a great story, filled with endless billions of stories, alive and dead, real and imagined. I did not seek to know them all; but only to be enthralled with as many as I could possibly come by.
So when I was 18, and I first attempted creative writing, it suddenly made sense to me that everything else I had been pursuing fell woefully short of something deeper in me. Now, all I want is what many writers want; to share their own stories, to evoke feeling and inspiration and motivation in others.
After all, so many who have come before have done the same for me. I look only to continue the tradition. In my own way.
I’ve been a professional poker player for eight years. I’ve backpacked europe, I’ve biked alone across the northeastern US by myself when I was eighteen. I grew up living on a boat half the year every year. I’ve hung out in grimy side streets and in sprawling mansions and empty parking lots. I’ve read a lot of books, played a lot of video games, I’ve grown up and I’ve stayed young and no matter what I learn and whatever I believe life is in this moment, I’m still searching. I think I always will be.