Dear Roger:For What It Was Worth, I Was Here

https://www.createspace.com/3859423    My book.
I'm not a very outgoing person. I tend to stand back and watch things happen, observe goings on, pay attention to what is said, listen to the subtext and just try to be prepared to duck and dodge when things go wrong. I never sought fame or even fortune, never wanted to be the top dog in anything. I just wanted to do my thing and be happy. It would have been nice to have been loved the way my grandparents loved each other, but I am not a very lovable person. I am stand-offish and cold and I live a lot in my own head. Its a big part of the reason that when my sisters best friend killed herself, that my sis called me for an explanation, she knew of all the people around, I would have an understanding of why she did it, because I have lived with the reasons to do it for years, but I have the reasons not to nagging me for cookies or Koolaid and reminding me I am needed, so I keep plugging along.
My writing is my solace, my only outlet and my driving force. I write every damn day and it burns out of me like a fire from a volcano some days. Its not earth-shattering, life changing, great, philosophical literature, but its whats in my head and it has got to come out or it makes me crazy(er). I didn't write for years and years when I was living in darkness, mainly because I was so busy surviving and ducking and dodging, I just didn't have the time or the energy. I had lost my muse and my will.
It came back a couple of years ago, in fits and starts, at first with a blog where I started railing against the misery I had allowed myself to fall into, and then low and behold my true muse found me again and he was a bit pissed to have been neglected for so long.
My muse is a visual creature and he has a pretty consistent appearance and persona that drives me and inspires me to write.I have pictures that help remind me of the face of my muse when he wanders off and the inspiration leaves for a bit, and those help, but I have found that I understand why most people find writers to be a bit insane, because I know I am.
I wander around with bits of scrap paper stuffed in my pockets with odd notes on them, my computer desktop is a disaster area of pictures of random people and things that have inspired stories as well as bits and pieces of starts of new story ideas. My son has fits when he looks at it because it looks like I imagine my desk would look if I were sitting with pen and paper again.
My son knows that I write a wide variety of things, from short stories that have people writing me to tell me that I," Ripped their hearts out and left them sobbing," to rollicking, awkward sex filled humorous, tales that my son wont even hazard to try and read, to flat out gay erotica that has prompted more than a couple gay men to write me and offer praise at a," Job well done"(pun fully intended), I kill people in my stories, beat them up, give them hardship, leave them hurting, make them poor and flawed and give them packs of kids that wreck havoc on their lives, in other words, I write what I know, (except for the gay erotica, I have no idea where the hell that comes from, my muse is a bit of a odd ball), I don't write graphic sex, but I get the point across without smacking you in the face with it, and I write like I talk, Texan/Southern. 
People have commented on my writing style, calling it,"Reality writing for Southern speak", but I don't know if I would go that far. I use colloquialisms and I use slang, and I chop the ends off words. Like my characters economic status, their way of speaking reflects where they are and where they come from;me.
I self-published a short story of mine that has never seen the light of day anywhere else. It was written over a few days and I sat on it for quite a while because it was so damn dark, and until my muse would cooperate and lighten it up, I just wasn't happy with it.
I don't know if it will do any good or if many people will buy or read it, Its sold 7 copies as of the writing of this blog, but its something tangible of what I was and what I did. My next novel is almost done with editing and its my pride and joy because its months and months of work that took a lot of blood, sweat and tears to come to life. I don't have an editor or an agent or anyone other than a long-suffering friend who pre-reads and looks for glaring mistakes and then reassures me I am not out of my mind to trying.
My dedication page is about the only thing I am sure of so far, and its to the men who gave me my light so my muse found his way home ,so that when I am gone there will be something that even if its half-assed with grammar to have my English teacher spinning in her grave, that says:I was here, I lived my dream even if it was small, it meant the world to me.