Midway upon the journey of life, I found myself within a forest of trash. 

In those days the collection company would pick up a whole neighborhood’s over-sized items and great heaps at once, and there was much to salvage, particularly furniture, stationary, and boxes of cereal. In later days the practice was stopped from an aversion to scavengers such as myself. At one house I discovered a Mac SE (Mac in a box). The resident stepped out and assured me it worked and just needed a keyboard; he had upgraded. I took it home and within a few days started writing fiction.

Ah, the sci-fi child I had once been was awakened anew. Every year without tangible result, the frustration spurred me into more intense determination. An anarchist, I endured the shift from propaganda to pure lies gracefully yet painfully. I scribbled things I should have done, so they became things I could never do. I hear I’m so much better than I was and I become sad; the first things I wrote were much more important.

My goal is to be represented in the science-fiction section of the book area of a certain thrift store in Minneapolis.