Foreword

My attempt to begin a novel I've decided to begin work on, please tell me what you think.

I believe men do things out of necessity. Motives are a thing that literature and psychology and f*****g modern art over complicates. We do things, not because of fate or god, or any exterior force. These things guide our decisions, perhaps steer us away from what we may otherwise decide to do, but they do not govern us. In all true and pure things, we act from necessity. 

In my life, I have never met an actor, nor an artist, nor a writer. I have met men and women forced to lie, and making a living out of it. I have met damaged people, tormented by their pasts, or presents, or futures, or the ghosts inside their heads; they too make a living out of it. 

Some people ridicule what it is to be an artist, bemoan it as a profession of dumb luck; no hard work in writing after all. It is hard for them to understand the blood and sweat left on the page,when they receive it freshly printed, stark and white. No, the struggle is rarely understood. Nor is the maddening necessity that drives us. 

It was this necessity, in the sweltering summer of 2001, that forced me to pack a bag, and never turn back.