V. H. King's Ink

My clearest memories of my writing are from when I was six or seven years old. If you ask my parents, they would probably tell you I was reading and writing before that age. I can’t guarantee it was quality work. I also can’t promise that I didn’t scribble on the walls or the TV screen with a purple crayon. I will confess, however, that I got in trouble for carving letters into the dinner table.

Nearly twenty years later, I finally I have the courage to share my words and art with the world in a consistent way. What took me so long? Well, I was waiting until I got it all right. I had to make sure everything was perfect first. That time has finally, at long last, NOT ARRIVED!!!

I’m carrying on with my dreams anyway. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t write explicitly to publish my material. My family and friends have often lauded me, prophesying that I will go on to be a great writer and gain a considerable following. That might happen. That might not. It’s not really what I’m worried about.

I write for the love of it, for the joy of it, for the challenge of the creative process and the accomplishment of refining my craft. I write to watch my characters grow. I write to learn what my characters have to teach me. I write because I can’t not write. I write because I don’t know any other way to exist.

If I have to breathe to live–if bleeding proves I’m alive–then words are my air, and ink fills my veins.

I’m learning to embrace the imperfections in my writing. I’ve managed to give up trying to decide on which genre I might fit in. I’ll leave it to my readers to describe what they find in my words. I’m not focused on marketing myself in any particular way. I simply write stuff. Some of it is on a screen, some of it is just for me, some of it is kept in a pile of works-in-progress.

Every now and then, I compile some stuff between two covers. Sometimes I end up with a hard-copy draft to tear apart. I find myself with the pleasure of revising and reworking the rough version until it’s closer to the truth of the characters and the story that needs to be told. Other times, the characters are demanding to step out into the world, clamoring to be seen and heard by eyes other than mine.

Similar to my writing, my art has been a companion for what feels like my entire life. I’ve been as critical of my art over the years as I’ve been about my writing. I’ve also learned to set aside that criticism, and focus on the joy that the creative process brings. Rather than working toward profit or perfection, I’m working to remind myself that there are works I can be proud of. I like the way I paint trees, I like the vivid color schemes to which I’m drawn, I like the way everything is a little crooked, a little messy.

The art and adventures you’ll find here are like me–weird, messy, and wonderful. The pages, the posts, the things for purchase–these are parts of me I am learning to embrace in all their imperfections. I’ll likely make a few adjustments along the way as I learn what works and what doesn’t. But just because I don’t have it all figured out yet doesn’t mean I can’t step bravely forward.

So, who’s ready to be weirdly, wonderfully, imperfect?