Okay, so maybe I’m not the greatest erotic short story author, definitely not the most prolific, but maybe someone will buy one of my stories. It will probably just be my mom, you know, being supportive. It’ll be sooooo awkward when she reads about heaving bosoms and bulging bulges.
In my life, I’ve written one book. (You can find it on Amazon for $5.99. Helluva deal! Wink, wink.) Pretty much no one read it. I don’t blame them. It’s not the most amazing piece of fiction. It’s pretentious and uninformed. I started it when I was twenty-two. It was an assignment in a creative writing class. As a young writer, everything you write is precious. Actually, that never changes. Everything is still precious to me, but now I know when to keep things to myself and when to share them. I thought my short story would change the world if it just got in front of the right eyes.
As the semester moved on, I added more chapters. After I graduated, I added more chapters. Then I joined the Peace Corps. I was in living in a village in Benin, West Africa when I wrote the last few chapters. If you read the book, you can see me grow and mature. When I was twenty-two, I hadn’t really lived. I’d faced some hardships, but I was a white man living in America, I was born with privilege. Read more