None of this is my fault. I mean, how could it be?
Because I’m a writer, though I’ve certainly fought the tendency over the years to actually call myself that. Still, eventually we all have to own up to who we are, or else succumb to whatever other people call us. And sometimes, those two turn out to be exactly the same thing, which brings me back to this: I’m a writer. Occupationally. Aesthetically. Cantankerously. Fundamentally.
Which means this is just another WordPress blog from just another of those damnable Blowhards Who Write. Yippee for you for landing here!
And oh, the writer: An irritesting (it’s not a word; you can look it up) breed, obsessive and broody, often inexplicably emphatic and, ultimately, full of it, whatever your chosen pile of it might be. Thus I have apologized often enough for all the inherent human shortcomings that necessarily come with the title, but since I am, alas, one of those damnable writer types, the simple truth is I cannot be trusted not to lie, ever. Except right now. Because right now is different. Because I said so.
Now, there doesn’t seem to be anywhere to go from there but, well, everywhere. So …
Here you’ll find a snail’s-pace assembled portfolio of some of what I’ve written and had published through the years, and that I still like, at least mostly, for various newspapers and other word-centric sources, and for myself. Hopefully before too long, I’ll also start posting some of what I’m working on right now. Then again, I might just stick to the lazy route, and stay with the past. Because the past typically bites back a whole lot less.
Yours in whatever this is,
– Frank Rabey