I became aware of a strong impulse to write stories in the first semester of my sophomore year in college, when I took a creative writing class at The University of Maryland. When I saw the class listed in the bulletin I did not have to think about whether or not I would sign up for it. I had wanted to write stories for a long time, and reading had been an exciting part of my life. I had been an English major for an entire year at this point, and I loved all of my literature classes. But once I started writing in earnest I never stopped.
Telling a story became the very reason for my existence, if not my survival. Over the years I have published over seventy stories and essays–it might be over eighty at this point. Once I finish a story or essay I ride the high until I have to find another. My mind starts working on the next one until it comes to fruition, and then I inch forward to discover what it is. I have been doing this for many years now. God willing, I won’t stop until I run up against the brick wall and must move on to the next phase of existence, whatever it is.
Storytelling is what I do. It is who I am. I have no idea why. It is certainly the chunk of wood I’m hanging on as I drift in the sea of this life. Gracias a Dios.