Above all, art. 

As a child, I was completely swept away by music.  It spoke to me in a private language and whispered secrets I deeply needed to hear.  My rock & roll twenties and thirties were hardly a curveball.  Writing, performing, and recording kept me in the Taco Bell lifestyle to which I had grown accustomed.  It was a fulfilling time, and I was happy for the most part.

As my hairline began to retreat from this cruel world, I decided to seek out a new form of artistic expression.  The arc of the professional rock & roll musician: that-dude-is-fuckin’-cool—>I-know-that-dude—>who-was-that-dude-again—>what-happened-to-that-poor-dude—>yikes-that-dude-is-kinda-creepy.  Finding a new career seemed less tragic.  I’d always harbored a desire to write a novel, and one day I did more than harbor.  To say I loved it right from the start would be treason; love is so petty by comparison.

It is no great exaggeration to say the characters in books taught me as much about life as did life itself.  In books there were people to admire that I could not find elsewhere, often the only clear images of who I wanted to become.  The gutsy ones, the real ones, the smart ones, the funny ones, the ones who gave everything and, bruised and battered, saw it through to the end—these were my true mentors, one and all.  And the stories…  More than a few exhausted days resulted from not being able to put a great book on the nightstand.

As my desire to master the difficulties of this budding discipline grew, I began to realize that I wanted to create stories that I adored, characters that I’d want to hang out with.  Isn’t it possible, I wondered, to do more than to provide a meaningless distraction, fast-food fiction that ultimately leaves readers feeling shapeless and malnourished?  Can I create something to love?

It seems to me the choice as an artist is either to merely reflect the world, or to strive to illuminate it.  I have often found myself enchanted by talent, but starved for vision.  True, never fail to entertain will always be my primary directive as a writer, to make you laugh until I can lay claim to some of your wrinkles, to make you cry until you become a country song.  And then start chapter two.  Beyond that, however, it is my wish that you leave with something more than you had, something you can’t imagine living without.

What makes me want to write so badly—the core of my artistic drive—is my belief in our radiance, in our beauty, in our innate goodness.  Our power.  We have a divine right to shine; we only need the courage to do so.  One of my most supreme desires is to add my voice to those who endeavor to lift up the human race, to draw new maps to our enlightenment, to lay the foundation for paradise right here on this freaky blue marble.  Pipe dream?  Well, yeah.  But it’s a radically sane pipe dream.  And, more important, it’s the one etched in my soul.

How about you?