I’ve been writing for nearly three decades. It wasn’t easy—and it still isn’t. But it’s something I need to do, like breathing. Writing is not just a pastime for me; it’s a compulsion, a lifeline.

My journey as a writer, to this day, is one of being unpublished. Sure, I self-published a terrible book of poetry, and I’ve had a few poems appear in a small local newspaper in Galena, Illinois. But my fiction has never seen the light of day. This doesn’t diminish my desire to write. It’s like playing professional ball and not caring about reaching the championship game, or being an artist who doesn’t want to be paid for their work. We creatives, whether we admit it or not, are born with a deep, unspoken need to be validated. It’s part of the deal. We write, not just to express, but to be seen.

I can trace the origins of my writing to a story I penned when I was about seven years old—The Case of the Champion Boxer. It was about a detective trying to solve a case involving a cheating boxer who filled his gloves with concrete. My influences at the time were Young Indiana Jones, Encyclopedia Brown, and Tracer Bullet from Calvin and Hobbes. I remember walking around the house dressed as a detective, solving imaginary crimes with my magnifying glass—one I had borrowed from a Sherlock Holmes teddy bear named Bearlock Holmes, who sat next to a red bear dressed as a Russian sailor named Hunt for Red Octobear. My parents, in their own peculiar way, supported my whimsical imagination.

Reading and writing were never easy for me. As a child, I struggled with a learning disability, ADHD, and spent time in foster care – all added to the mountain I faced when it came to school. If it weren’t for my adopted parents’ love of reading, I probably wouldn’t have made it. They gave me the tools to navigate a world that was sometimes too chaotic to understand. It’s through a series of profound influences—books, teachers, mentors, even chance encounters—that we writers find the coal to ignite our engines.

Of course, rejection stings. It hurts, slices, dices, and sometimes feels like it kills a piece of you. But as Haruki Murakami wisely said, “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.” Rejection may sting, but it won’t stop me from putting one letter next to another, in hopes of stringing together a sentence that matters. Writing is not something I can stop doing. It’s simply part of my life. So I keep going.

This website, which I started 12 years ago, was my platform to explore the topics I care about—primarily pop culture. I’m proud of it, even with all the poorly written posts from years past. Looking back at it, I can at least say that my words have been read by someone—about 1,000 people a year, on average.

And that, in its own way, is heartwarming. The hardest part, though, is finding a way to sneak my own creative work of fiction into this space.

It’s not that difficult, though. It’s what I’ll be doing in the future—sharing my stories with those who happen upon this corner of the internet. Will this platform stop being a space for pop culture? No. But will it evolve to include my identity as a writer? Yes, absolutely.

Let’s return to the beginning. My influences are vast, deep, and wide. I need to let them flow through this site before they become sentient and come to arrest me for abandoning them. If you’re a writer, you’ll understand exactly what I mean.

When I was a child, I fought Sith Lords, immortals, goblins, Nazis, and sharks the size of school buses. In my teenage years, I hunted vampires, zombies, and demonic freaks. In my twenties, I laughed with idiot criminals, stoned bowlers, and literary types who didn’t understand the purpose of commas. In my thirties, I found a voice in the East, art in Latin America, a king on a cross, and a powerful leaf of literary education.

Now, in my late 30’s, I’m eager to share this kaleidoscope of images, ideas, and thoughts with you all. It’s a journey that’s never truly over, but every word I write brings me one step closer to being the writer I’ve always been.

“Why not just scream and shout it? “ – MJ