Yours trulyThis is me. Not too impressive, to be sure, but it’s all I am for the duration.

I started writing when I was in seventh grade. First a few essays, some prose, short stories, and the like. I eventually tried writing my first novel and failed miserably.

I kept writing, even though it provided little else than a distraction to pass the time. In 1996, when I was 14, I found that writing was becoming more and more of an outlet for my frustration and sadness. I began playing with poetry and lyrics, writing songs and melodies.

These days, you won’t find me far from a computer or at least a pad of paper and a pen. And in the same respect, music has become as much of an outlet to me as writing. I spend almost as much time playing the guitar or the bass, on stage or off, as I do sitting around writing.

It’s not an impressive life, and I don’t expect a lot of what I write about to make much sense to those around me. I only hope that some day these words make some kind of sense to me, and I can look back and see the progress that I’ve made. Assuming, of course, that any progress is made between now and then.

I once thought that becoming a good writer would be an asset and something to work toward. I’ve come to find that it’s more like digging out a tooth with a needle: it’s slow, painful, and progress is made very very slowly. The introspection and insight that comes with it can be just as equally damaging as it is helpful.

But a like a junkie waiting for his next fix, I can’t seem to help myself from digging just a bit deeper. Some day, if I’m lucky, maybe the mystery of myself will be solved. Maybe not.