There is nothing in my creative process that is so satisfying as knowing a person enjoyed reading it. I admit this may be a little shallow on my part as I should be writing for me and me alone and all of those altruistic things.

I don’t though.

These stories are in my fucking head all day, every day. I know the beginnings and endings of tens of thousands of them. I can revel in them any time I want to. I can Scrooge McDuck swim in the vault of them until the day I die and never write down a single word. So why do I write stories out, why do I put myself through the process of making them look just so, or making them sound just right, or changing the languages from my inner dialog?

In order to explain that, I will go about my usual process of massively over-explaining a thing using a personal story that will hopefully pull at your heartstrings and make you pity-love me just a little bit more and raise my self-esteem from the floor where it spends most of its time.

I read Frank Herbert’s Dune when I was really, really young. Like, less than ten years old kind of young. I didn’t understand the philosophical, religious or even ecological points that were being made. Fuck I still don’t understand some of those int he way I am sure he meant them to be understood. What I did understand was that this story, this awesome adventure using giant fucking worms and death words from angry lady-priests, rain-making on desert worlds, revenge on creepy uncle types, plus all of the psychic, space-folding was the greatest fucking thing I had ever seen.

While I would never compare myself to the late Mr. Herbert, I knew then that some of the things in my head, the stories I would tell myself at night while desperately waiting for the dawn to come, were right there in front of me to see, in print, where other people could see and enjoy them.

It was what heroin did to me later but a thousand-fold stronger. I shook heroin, I will be a storyteller until the day I shuffle the coil. I tell stories because it takes people to a place away from where they are in that second. They may need to escape from their reality, they may want the fantasy, they may want the day to go faster, but they need it, they need an alternate reality. Most of my stories, or chapters, or whatever I call them, take me about half an hour to write. They take maybe a third of that to read if you are reading the longer ones. In those ten minutes, you are free. You are not hiding in the bathroom at work, you are not sitting there staring at columns of numbers or data or name after name after name. You are in a Dark Faerie world, Notre Dame Basilica, a shady crime organization or the dozen other worlds I have created.

Hide there, you are safe there, they will never go away and I will endeavor to constantly expand them so you can burrow ever deeper into them until all that you are hiding from passes you over for that moment and it is okay to be you, at your desk or in your bed.

I love you fuckers, that’s why I write the stories.

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