Every time I sit down to write, I'm not trying to tell you something, I'm not trying to make anyone laugh or cry or shoot beer out of their nose. I'm simply trying to explain the world around me.
Because sometimes the world makes sense. And sometimes it doesn't. Half the time, I plow through life like a blind guy driving a bus filled with explosives. The other half, I stumble around like I'm drunk.
My hope is that someone reads something I've written and it helps them understand their world a little better. I think we each live in our own bubble worlds. Some are smaller, some larger. Sometimes those bubbles collide, sometimes they merge for periods of time, allowing two people (or more depending on how you roll) to share their world. And all I can do is describe my world. How it works and what doesn't make sense and how fucked up it all can be. In the hopes that it makes sense to someone else.
Even when, sometimes, it doesn't make sense to me.
I read for the same reason.
Because, despite living in our own bubble worlds, everyone wants to know they're not alone. Sharing experiences, sharing ideas about the worlds we live in--even if those worlds are pure fantasy--helps us cope with the dark.
The real truth, is that I don't know Jack about writing. I don't know anything about publishing. Some days I can barely manage to get my shoes on the proper feet. But I can tell you about my world. I can tell you what I know, what I don't know, what I love, what freaks me out, what wakes me in the night with cold sweats.
And maybe, if one person gets it, that'll be pretty cool.
And maybe our worlds will make a little more sense.