I always liked to share my writings with other people. The reception these missives received was usually mixed, but the general attitude was “you’re a really good writer.” The problem is, and always has been, the subject matter. However good your prose, there just isn’t a big market for stories about goblins doing things.

Now, the obvious thing for any writer to say is, “well, that Lord of the Rings fellow did pretty damned well now, didn’t he?” This would be true. And while I am not going to suggest that I am on a par with J.R.R. Tolkien, I can certainly claim that the names of my characters are a helluva lot easier to pronounce. J.K. Rowling has also done quite well with books about magic and, I imagine, some sort of mystical beasts. Alas, I am deficient in not being equal to either of these literary giants, as I had the misfortune of being born outside of the United Kingdom. As a measure of recompense, though, I frequently utilize the British spelling for both “rumour” and “harbour”, so surely that ought to gain me some traction.

Recently, and sadly, my first high school English teacher passed away. Many of my classmates remembered her as being an inspiration to their own writing, and how she had encouraged them to explore poetry and prose. I remember her not for this, but for her indulgence. Our first big assignment was to write an original story. It had to be at least one page. I was ecstatic. I turned in a twenty-page story. She didn’t need to encourage me. But she did indulge me. I learned that the joy of writing was in writing, and if anybody enjoyed reading it, all the better. But I wrote primarily for me, and I still do. Even if I am the only one that Googles up “Slothjemia”, it is all worth it.

With all of that said, I do hope that someday all of this finds a market. It is, after all, a lot easier reading than “The Silmarillion.”