Introductory Post

In college, I majored in Writing. People would ask me if I was going to be a teacher, and I would tell them no, I am going to be a Writer. I will get paid just to write, and will write the most moving, poignant, sentimental, and savvy Great American Novel (or Novels) ever written. I will live contemplatively and tragically in Europe, and will drink wine from the bottle on riverbanks.

Nearly ten years later, I am a police detective, so as it turns out I do get paid to write. Unfortunately, my work now consists generally of smutty, sordid, and overlong reports describing my conversations with child molesters, robbers, burglars, and the like. The novel still isn't written, though I made a few earnest stabs at it.

So insert a cliche about time passing and all the things I've learned along the way, because here I am, with a stint in the Army and a year at war to my name, having seen the great capitals of Europe, having moved back to my old hometown, with a beautiful black-haired and pregnant wife, three stair-stepped Pirate boys and the girl on the way, a good job that I enjoy. I love baseball, camping, God, stories about colonial Africa, my wife, spaghetti with okra in the sauce, the rugged rain-washed beauty of Oregon, my kids, America, pizza, well-laid-out cities and neighborhoods, cheap wine, and expensive cheese.

Expect this blog to be about all of those things (and maybe more) in some fashion or another. I hope, at the end of it all, you think to yourself, "That guy should write a novel."