InsaneJournal

This summer brings to mind the second year I spent in college. I did not finish that year. Someone in my family suggested I go all year long and get my college life finished as quickly as possible. That just burned me out much more quickly than it should have done. I dropped out when I was offered the chance to write for a living. I didn't worry all that much about my reputation or masculinity. I was writing under a name that was not my own. What did I care about those strange social hierarchies, anyway? I don't really fit in with many of them, even now. Let alone, back then.

You'll notice that I'm treading water when it comes to describing my fiction. It should be Romance, but that genre is dominated by women, and my publishers were careful not to suggest that's all my writing is. However, I designed it with the Romance Writers of America's definition always in mind. The hero and heroine always manage to overcome the odds and end up together. I'm a sucker for a happy ending. That made horror impossible to write. At least the sort that actually scares people. I'm not entirely loyal to the genre, and the genre is not entirely loyal to me. The male point of view is welcome, I'm told, but should I slack into the more crass superficiality of a stereotypical man, I'd lose any audience I ever had. My novels always surround a mystery. They always involve the supernatural, and they could be thrillers, if there weren't such an obvious main plot of a love affair that is not quite perfect until the end.

Most male writers who venture into love stories wind up in the more crass erotica that suits their own needs. I never wrote for my own masturbation material, though. In fact, I think I was always trying to be some sort of modern Byron, and to somehow manifest my own genre altogether. One that was definitely not predictable, but always heroic. I don't think I succeeded very often. I was often edited and advised into predictable patterns that bored me to tears. However, I managed to throw in my own perspectives more often than not. Sometimes there were things in there that were definitely unwanted by the publishers. They mostly had the final say, except for some very key moments in my stories. I'll explore those details later, when I discuss my poetry, which was not very well-received by my publishers, at first, due to the darker nature of their themes. Ultimately, though, the books earned back the debt I accrued in publishing those slim collections. Those were far more important than the *coughs* Romance *coughs* books I wrote for everyone else.

There are times I wonder if putting a picture in the last book of poetry was such a good idea - something my company wanted once they found out the single I produced had garnered a contract for at least one full album. Only a handful of people recognize me, though. This isn't fame of the caliber that gets one landed in tabloids and CNN over the slightest deviation in my daily routine. Thank goodness for that, right? No one's reporting my latest haircut every twenty minutes on MTV or anything.

I am simply an artist burdened by words and by music. I say "burdened" because it's with me at all times. My closest companions are my books and my CDs. I have but few friends. I have an older sister that I don't know very well and a brother that is nearly ten years younger than me. I only ever knew that I was the odd man out in most settings. The artist, misunderstood genius... or something along those lines. I don't know about the "genius" part as much as the misunderstood part. I know that the "gifted" tag has haunted my every waking step throughout school. People expect more. No... they DEMAND more from the gifted children. There is little room for play once tagged "gifted" and I envied my siblings their freedom. Their destinies weren't as "important" as mine, it was implied. The road of superiority is not one I would recommend to anyone else, though. Normality seems to have many advantages to "gifted", no matter how many times people claimed that I was the one with the "advantages."

There, that's me. Tortured by my supposed gifts. Probably just mad enough to be entertaining, too. I'm a man in my late twenties, with a little money and a little time on my hands.

I'm also searching for something. I may never find it. It is either to fill this void in my soul, or it is to make peace with the void in my soul - whichever comes first, I guess.