First times…

I remember the first time I saw my words in print. I was the ripe young age of 18 and I had wrote a letter to, Brian Michael Bendis a comic book writer I respect. I can’t remember the title of the comic, though I am sure it was “Powers”, or “Sam and Twitch”. I can barely remember what the letter said. I complimented the author on his style and made a joke about fan boys, who count the number of ass hairs in comic books for consistency. His reply was he was the fan boy who counted ass hairs and to fuck off.

Right on, my idol had told me to fuck off. Somehow that made perfect sense. I was not angered at his invitation of self copulation but found it to be a boon. I had sent in the letter as kind of a ribbing, a good natured joke to a man I respected, and I felt Mr. Bendis got the joke. He included me into his world and put me into print.

I showed everyone and they gave the same look of confused approval I get when I tell others of my self procliamed prouder moments. Such as the time when I duck tapped the end of the spoon to a stick and came up with a way to change the channel on the television. My mother said I was the laziest person alive. OK, maybe she said I was lazy. But I like to remember the event with her voice raised to the heavens in a proclamation of my slothfulness. When in reality, I had a made a primitive remote control. Then again, I might have lost the actual remote and built the device out of couch desperation. I was a evil little bastard.

The first time I discovered a unheard of good writer, I found my first addiction. I was in upstate New York on a bad trip with a group of friends in a quarrel. We walked down a cobble stone roadway and found a quaint local bookstore.

“The Dangerous Lives of Alter boys” by Chris Fuhrman was on display in the shop’s window. It’s cover looked like a comic book and I was sold. I read the book on the ride home and found it to be one of the most beautiful pieces of fiction. I was hooked. There had been times when people would give me authors to read. Teachers, parents or friends love to give out recommendations. But my purchase in at the independent book store in Upstate New York was different. I had found an author to tell other about. I could tell people about Chris Fuhrman, who wrote about subversive boyhood antics. In this serendipitous event, I understood you could write about life in a modern manor and about brutal subjects.

My eyes would further open as I read books like Fight Club and Filth, from authors known for their brutal pens as Chuck Palahniuk and Irving Welsh. Modern writers who tackle the truth through fiction. From my letter to Brian Michael Bendis to my discovery of Chris Fuhrman, my life has seen many firsts.