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skip the intro, let's see the list of stories
It's hard to remember deciding to be a writer. I know it was one of the earliest things I wanted to be, along with astronaut, leader, pilot and scientist. But somehow, somewhen, I must have realized that no matter what else I did, above all, I wanted to write.
I know I've known it since I was eleven, because that's when I wrote my first actual story. It was a science fiction epic with young characters in a military spacecraft exploring an alien civilization made up of creatures that looked like balls of fur. I'd taken great care in designing all the spacecraft in the story, drawing top, side and frontal diagrams complete with dimensions and the insignia of the United Federation of something (Planets or Stars, I can't remember which).
I remember reading the story to my Uncle Delbert and Aunt Petra on a trip through the Rocky Mountains that year, but I can't remember many details of the story itself. I worked on the story for a very long time, and ended up burning the manuscript after deciding it was horrible; I remember my Mom scolding me for destroying something that I would surely want to remember some day. She was right.
Not many of my stories from that time have survived. I wrote a lot, though. My english language skills were advanced for my age; in grade 7 my English teacher would let me go alone to the school library once I was done that day's English work. I spent most of each English class in the library, working at some story on the little manual typewriter I'd bought from my French teacher for twenty dollars. Every now and then I'd read a chapter to the rest of the English class, who appreciated the break from grammar lessons enough to not mind the special treatment I was getting too much.
I've grown a lot as a writer since then. I didn't always write as much as I'd like to, but I always have a story that I'm working on, and a drawer full of ideas vying to be the next thing I'll write. When I'm not writing, I'm thinking about writing. Or reading about it; I've read so many books on the art and craft of writing, sometimes I feel like a soldier who trains for war his whole life but never gets to see a battle. But not all of a writer's work is done on the page. It amazes me how much I've improved from year to year just from growing up.
I feel like I've finally reached the point in my life where I can say I'm a writer without it being wishful thinking. I was hired by Prelusion, a new computer game company based in Sweden, as the Lead Writer for a graphic adventure called Gilbert Goodmate and the Mushroom of Phungoria. Prelusion put together a talented team, and it's been a lot of fun working with them.
The stories I'm working on now have an edge I couldn't have dared when I was younger, although I still struggle with my desire to revise things to death. It's as hard to start writing as it ever was, but it's just as intoxicating and addictive when the characters come alive on the page.
I must admit to being leary of putting my older stories on the web. I want to be judged by my best writing, but my best stories are either still being written or still visiting editors who might not want something already published on the internet. Some writers don't seem too troubled by this, like Orson Scott Card who has put entire novels online prior to publication. But at this stage in my career, I can't afford to give editors any more reasons not to buy my stories than they already think they have.
Does this mean I can only put my worst stuff online? Not really. There are experimental stories I never meant to sell, stories that don't really fit into a market. There's at least one first draft that is doomed to go nowhere and will never be seen if it isn't on the web. And there are some very old stories I wouldn't dare try to sell that are still well worth reading.
So, while I'm aware that these might not be my best stories, I am willing to share them with you. If nothing else, when my best work appears in print some day and you wonder how you could ever do the same, remembering these stories of mine should be proof enough that you really ought to persevere.
So, here are some things I've written, with a brief foreword and afterword to share my thoughts. I hope you enjoy them and welcome any feedback you care to give.
We go outside for firewood, together. The crunch of snow under our boots
is pleasing, and we linger on the way to the woodpile. It all seems so
normal sometimes -- so much like before. It could be the same, if we would
ignore what was happening. If there wasn't hope.
more
He wanted to run. But running would make him stand out, and right now he
needed to blend in, to disappear. The clerks and aides to his left and
right kept right on with their duties, some acknowledging his presence with
a nod or a smile, most not bothering to look up. Flank wondered how many of
them were armed...
more
Two unfinished openings from my ideas drawer.
more
I was returning to my King, valiant from a worthy adventure which would
have made quick work of a lesser knight. My skill with sword was barely
'nough to have kept my countenance, and I sported many a wound from a
recent battle--two dozen of our enemy's best troops, and I swear upon it,
thought to ambush me on the forest path. Would that my 'prentice were
there; 'twas a fight of legend-making proportions, I'd say.
more
An experimental interview with one of my characters.
more
When I wakened, and found myself at the bottom of the hill, I turned
upon my fiancee and struck him square upon the head. "Fool!" I called him,
and wondered how on Earth I could free us from this new predicament. Which,
of course, was most entirely his fault...
more
Merritt closed the book around his fingers, and laid his head back
against the wall. The soft husk of the sapha wood was damp and cold;
he thought of closing the window to keep out the rain. No, he needed the
green smell of the forest, blowing into the shack in gusts that battled his
candle's tiny flame. He needed something from outside to remind him he was
not alone in this strange world, that the wind and the rain were the same
here as anywhere. To remind him that there was life, that living things
could thrive, even with Ariel so near...
more
An answering machine message with a science fiction theme.
more
Day 26: The captain let us have three sips of water today. Jones still
can't feel his toes, but none of us wants to be the one to cut them off for
him...
more
Last modified: November 15, 2003
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