When it comes to writing (and it generally doesn’t in my case), I’ve become a master of avoidance over the past twelve or so years. Prior to that, I churned out passable short stories, at least for the glorious few years when I flitted between U of O’s Comparative Literature and Creative Writing departments while belatedly finishing the undergrad degree I’d begun in Sydney in the early ’90s. In 2005 then, post-graduation, post-rejection from the two local MFA programs to which I’d applied, I found myself, strangely enough, a medical administrator and soon thereafter a “businessman.” It was not a path I would ever have predicted, but there I was. I had been many things career-wise prior to this, including an aircraft mechanic (Ireland & UK, 5 years), an elevator mechanic (Australia, 4 years), a technical writer (Silicon Valley & Oregon, 4 years), and a stay-at-home dad (Oregon, 6 years). The only significant side jobs I’d had tended to revolve around alcohol—a couple of years bartending in Australia and the same as a wine store clerk in Oregon (I quit drinking for good a few years back and am grateful to have my sanity and liver relatively intact).
Today, then (and for most of 2017), having the genuine luxury of only needing to work a couple of days a week, I found myself with time on my hands to write, and so finally I am. I don’t particularly care to blog, but I must somehow vanquish my fear of failure/inadequacy/irrelevance and start generating sentences. Blogging will suffice for now. I hope I can turn it into something meaningful and not just navel-gazing and remembrances of time past. Bear with me—and thanks.