My uncle just died. And no, I am not a blood relation of Ray Bradbury’s (but think on that for a moment, how indescribably awesome that would be); people who have had a profound effect on me, especially in a literary sense–I consider them my uncles. I’ve never delved into where this notion came from–perhaps because in an indeal world, it’s your uncle who gives you the advice that isn’t necessarily one hundred percent safe. They care about you–but at the end of the day, you’re not their kid. And they can’t have adventures anymore, so why not tell you how to go have some?
That’s an ideal uncle. Which made Uncle Ray even more impressive…because he never stopped adventuring. And while I had always wanted to write, it was the unsafe advice of Uncle Ray that actually got me off my ass–or on my ass, rather–and typing.
Every morning I jump out of bed and step on a landmine. The landmine is me. After the explosion, I spend the rest of the day putting the pieces together.
Every day since then, I’ve been trying to blow myself up. With mixed results.