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Works published by me... In secret

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“Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made.”
- Immanuel Kant

Many people around the world will call themselves a perfectionist. In fact it is a term that has been afflicted upon myself on the seemingly rare occasion. At which time, at it’s best, I find it offensive, and at its worst, I find it a complete and misconstrued lie. I am not perfect. Nothing I have ever done, nor attempted to do has been perfect.

And yet…

This idea of perfectionism, and being perfect is the noose in which I consistently hang myself, and the order in which I kill my darlings.

I am a writer. And an imperfect one at that.

Not only do I find myself in the position of being human and therefore imperfect, but I also find that this falsehood - perfectionism… has been the siren that has led me into the belly of the beast of an even more decrepit and vile creature… fear.

Yes, fear often surrounds me, breathing it’s fire into my brain. Clouding my ability to create, knowing that it won’t be perfect. And that smoky cloud is the toll booth at every road I travel, every creative step I take. It stops me from crossing the bridge, from leaving the world of  unpublished to published. It also stops me from taking a piece of work and putting it out into the world. It stops me from being able to say, I have done this.

So… I have created this new world for me to live in, my own world to create, where perfectionism does not exist. Where ideas and stories live in their rawest forms. A place where creating something is the oxygen that holds this world together. And the imperfections that live in this new creation, exist in their own form of beauty.

I know I am not the only person alive who is afraid to create. Or more importantly to shout their creations with loud, outlandish abandon. Here is the place to do that. This is the place where stories can live, in anonymity. They live as secrets. Secrets that can be whispered or shouted. But they have a place to live. 

I have tonnes of stories that come through my head all the time. When I sit down to write something I try to put every ounce of myself into it. Sometimes it turns out the way I think it will, other times it takes a completely different route. At the end of the day I want to give these things a place to live, even if I can’t live there with them.

This is the place where I write. Where I sell what I write, in its imperfect version. Because I would rather share my love, my stories, my thoughts, my ideas in a world where they live imperfectly, rather than no world at all.

Therefore I introduce myself. I am the Secret Novelist. I write the stories that come to me. I meet the characters in my mind and they blossom in front of me. 

I have had so many ideas that I have been afraid or ashamed to write about. But, in the birth of becoming the secret novelist, There is no place for fear. I walk blindly into the fire of creativity, and the sword I carry is mightier than the pen. Because my sword is my heart. I lay it all on the line. In it’s terrible, irrational, poorly spelled, too many commas, misconstrued masterpiece. 

I tell the stories that come to me in the deepest recesses of mind mind. From dreams that have frightened me into consciousness at 3 Am, to the silly bewitching ideas that prance into my daydreams. The ideas that come in the shower, or walking down a long, very travelled road.

And I invite you, my dear friend to join me. Maybe you have ideas, stories, and things you want to publish yourself. Maybe you want someone to read your mind and heart’s deepest desires, but you have no place to put it. Put it here. Leave it with me, and my creations. We will give you a place to live, A place to be loved.

Maybe this will be the best thing I have ever done in my life, maybe it will be forgotten in three months. Who is to say? Maybe it will only be visited once a year. In whatever form it will take, I do not know. What I do know is… it will not be perfect. 

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“Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works.”

Virginia Woolf

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Past. Present. Future.


June, 2013


June, 2020

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