I’ve got this blog and I don’t use it. I mean, it’s here, I’ve always had it. I pay for the domain name and the fancy template. Yet, I don’t use it. Why? Is it a victim of the 115 characters you get on Twitter or the social cesspool that is Facebook? Is it a result of complete laziness? Do I blame the current political administration? Who is to fault here? Netflix and the binge worthy television program? Hearthstone or any number of other video games? Someone or something is to blame! Or are they? Wait! It’s got to be the podcasting, right? Nope. Not one of those. No one is to blame but me.

With the exception of a few instances, I took the last year off from writing about movies, TV, music or other mediums in long form to focus on my fiction. I wrote more short pieces than ever in my life. A cursed rocking chair, a camping trip gone wrong, a twist on I Am Legend with (gasp!) zombies, a mermaid in love, a girl’s favorite band. I’ve chronicled all of these the past year. I began work on my first novella that quickly became a novel and now needs a major re-write, for the better. It’s been a ponderous project, acclimating myself to thinking outside the traditional box of tropes, finding subjects to write about. As it is, life has provided me with more than enough material.

My family, especially my grandson. He’s a joy to me and I’ve often considered using his name as my pen name, C.W. Hyatt has a bad ass ring to it. My pets, a pair of Jack Russell dogs and a ten pound killer rabbit. Combined, they are a constant reminder to me that life is precious. Especially with the horrors that lurk in our darkest corners. I lost my cat last fall, his kidneys failed. It broke my heart. I’m not a cat person, but Bacchus and I were tight. Then, just before Christmas, a former associate smashed a woman’s head in with a brick, which led to the narrative changes in my novel. But ultimately, it was my father passing away that has had the greatest effect. Without a doubt, it has been the most cathartic experience I’ve gone through in my life. As a result, it’s become a catalyst for what I believe is the best thing I’ve ever written.

You see, I’m pissed I dragged ass on my novella, thinking that my Dad would be here for it when my assumed finish date, sometime this year, came. I could never have been so wrong. He fell in the bathroom on Superbowl Sunday and cancer finally beat the toughest Irishman I ever knew. I learned, instead of writing something for him to read, I must instead write something to honor his memory. I decided not to let his death defeat me in the same manner learning of his illness had once before. I wanted to write something that he would have enjoyed, something that spoke of my Dad.

And I think I found it. It makes me cry while I write it. That says something, right? It’s an idea that started in my mind as a joke, as something my Dad might have said while sitting at the campfire. I’ve never had a narrative speak to me in the manner this one has. The characters, the story, all of it is a perfect package. One part Richard Adams, one part Brian Keene, one part Greek myth… straight up without training wheels.

On the same token, my opinions about the current state of the entertainment industry need an outlet and since I’ve got this blog… I might as well use this as my soap box, my Vault perse, as it was intended to be.