I discovered comics young. So young that I can’t even pin it down to an age. I’d guess 5 or 6, but memory from that point in life isn’t to be trusted. I do know that it was around age 10 that I started trying to write and draw comics. Somewhere around 12 I took an art class that killed any artistic hope in me. Around that age I also started reading “serious fiction.” That’s when I set out to be a writer. And comics was the thing I most wanted to write.

Fast forward to now, past the English degree I hold, too many rejected comics submissions, a bunch of short stories like this one, and a stint as an English teacher. I now work as a software developer. Still a writer, of a sort. A writer of software, rather than stories. But still, our young selves have a way of shaping our current selves. In fact, I still think about writing comics all the time, still have stories swimming around in my head daily. But I find every excuse I can not to sit down and write.

I think this needs to end.

So I’ll spend some time this weekend writing. I’ve got another idea for a comic I want to flesh out. A kind of Southern Gothic Absurd piece. A “What if Flannery O’Connor wrote superhero stories?” kind of thing.

I’m not deceiving myself into thinking I’m the next great comics writer. But if I get something down that doesn’t suck, I might cast about for an artist to bring it to life. If not, at least I’ll have broken out of my can’t-ever-find-the-time-to-write slump.