Growing up in Shaker Heights Ohio as Dianne and Bill’s son, I took an unusual route to a writing career. My two brothers Chris and Alex were budding photographers and movie buffs. We worked together co-writing/directing and shooting experimental stuff in the backyard, recruiting our neighborhood friends.
My two cousins Mike and Andrew were state legend football Gods, It would have been cool to stand next to them in battle-scared gridiron armor, but those shoes didn’t fit. I chose the swift blade of Fencing. After winning my fair share of foil trophies at local and regional events, I went on to be eliminated in the middle rounds of the Junior Olympics.
Committing to Ohio University, I set up my curriculum for international business. There was no Fencing program at the time. Writing was what I did in my free time. Letters to family, letters to friends all over the world, all the while collecting handwritten adventures.
Duty called, transferring me to West Virginia University for the honor of following my Grandfather Horace, and Uncle Tracy into the fold. As a third-generation legacy, my journey pledging the illustrious Omega Psi Phi fraternity required three tours. I returned to Ohio University to complete my degree with over ten years of scribbled escapades filling my bag. I wasn’t shy, but at the time you couldn’t pay me to stand in front of a large group and deliver these stories. I drifted through life fervently, an observant man of few words.
We all have crazy roommate stories. Mine invited me to hang out often. However, he took it personally (more than a few times) when I chose to stay home and work on my computer. My roommate had the kind of bashed knuckles you didn’t argue with. He called me out when his girlfriend's boudoir photos came up missing. Instead of asking me to help search, he set fire to my backpack before looking under his bed. This cold rubber glove of emptiness felt like black market scavengers snatching out my spleen. I wasn’t the same.
The only times I found myself sharing stuff was if it involved ice-cold beer. Close friends crowbarred it out of me. Looking back, I laugh because we can run from our purpose as long and far as we want, but the purpose will be there waiting everywhere we go. Haunting our sleep like fish hooks pulling our eyes open to own it.
