About Me

When Dad passed away at 73 years old, I posthumously discovered three slim diaries in his desk he'd written for the years 2018, 2019, and 2020 respectively. One for each of the last three he lived. 

  The diaries were a shock considering Dad wasn't a great fan of the literary arts. His thoughts about poetry, journaling, and "all that flowery bullshit" to be very unmanly and generally frowned upon.  Especially if the writer was "preening" (like Oscar Wilde), "pretentious" (Norman Mailer), or "possibly a woman."  Only the direct style of his beloved action-hero tales -- written by the likes of W.E.B. Griffin or Robert Ludlum or Zane Grey -- were acceptable. So, finding three personal diaries hidden in my father's desk was like discovering a paleolithic Neanderthal had written Beowulf.  

Sadly, despite the initial promise, Dad's diaries were non-starters.  A few handwritten entries -- mostly of the anemic, "poor me" variety -- which quickly faded into blank pages till the end of the book.

I realized Dad obviously had something he wanted to say at the end of his life.  Possibly a summing up of his along with the lessons and wisdom he'd acquired.  But the hubris of his own devising had trapped him in an inability to express himself in written form revealing the deeper thoughts beneath.  Pity. I would've liked to read his thoughts and beliefs summing up his life.  About the legacy he wanted to pass down.  But it wasn't to be.  

Still, the idea of a lineage diary interested me. I wondered if my own daughters, Olivia and Grace - whom I greatly adored - would like to have something literary to remember their father by?  A legacy of more than just old pictures and the memories of time.  I did not have the same reservations as Dad about literature -- all I required was it to be honest and skillfully written.  And I'd been reading quite extensively since a young age.    Alred Hitchcock mysteries and Encyclopedia Brown gave way to Harper Lee and Thomas Berger.  Poets T.S. Elliot and John Keats evolved toward E.E. Cummings and Charles Bukowski.  Edgar Rice Burroughs surrendered to John Steinbeck.  And the less know greats William Wharton, Annie Proulx, and Richard Russo never disappoint.

But not a diary.  I did not like the diary as a literary device, finding them to be far too narcissistic and boring as a medium. If I were to write, what I wrote would have to be entertaining. And informative about me as a person and the roles I valued - father, son, brother, husband, Christian.  Not to mention retired policeman, former detective, psychiatric nurse, avid pickleball player.  All without being regressive or trite.

So, in January of 2020, I began my own writing project. A few tentative paragraphs that turned into a few pages that progressed into the essays, short stories, book reviews, movie critiques, letters, and grumpy old man blog filling out the contents of this webpage.

You should know not everything written is factually accurate or historically sound. I took a few liberties in the interest of better fiction. But the work is one hundred percent me.  True to who I am, how I got here, and what I believe in. My “voice” as they say, which just about what every writer, editor, and How to book states I must find to be successful.   All is fair in art, they say. 

So, if you're looking for an autobiography or gossip - go ask my ex-wife. She was there for much of it and, as I learned early on, never forgets anything. 

Mainly, I just wanted to tell interesting tales you hopefully will enjoy reading. And if you happen to find the work poignant - and the writer wise beyond his years - so much the better.

One day - when I am gone - everything will be handed over to my daughters, Olivia and Grace, in the hope they will enjoy reading my works as much as I did creating them.

I love you, Olivia. I love you, Grace.

All this is me writing for you with all the love I have in my heart. 

Sincerely, 

              Your Dad, 

                       Eric