Brief Author Bio:

Ahhhh, for the vitality and energy and faith I had in my writing in my 20's. I really believed I was destined to be a great American novelist. I was a writer. I had my future ahead of me. Nothing was impossible. What an ego!

When I hit 30 and hadn't finished that first novel, I began to worry. I questioned all the focus points of my life. I questioned all my motivations and ethics. I questioned everything I had believed. At 32, I threw it all out and tried to start over.

But by then, I had gotten into the habit of questioning everything I did. Not that I didn't accomplish anything with my life since then. I did. But I never really convinced myself again that I had something to tell the world about life that was important enough to commit to a novel.

Now, I'm older. Quite a bit older really. Not enough time left to buy ripe bananas, as they say. Might as well sit down and write like hell for a month. If there's anything in me worth reading about maybe I can squeeze at least the shadow of it out in a month's time. The ego is adequately disabled along with the body. The self-centeredness of the 20's gave way to the self-righteousness of the 30's which in turn bowed out to the stunned self-indignation of the 40's. Now, as I'm shoved and dragged clawing through the last remnant of my 50's, I can at least go out with a scream-a nice month-long scream. A last ditch effort to prove my literary value.

What the hell? They can't kill me for trying. The worst they can do is refuse to read me.