We all started as pieces of fiction, and most of us began our relationship with language by lying, whether inadvertently or not. Something about being hungry or sad or hurt. Manipulation. It’s pretty universal to our kind.

But it’s one thing to love it, consume it, and teach it and another thing entirely to write it as an adult. Most of our creative faculties have by this time been drummed out of us.

Nevertheless, I began trying to write fiction relatively recently, and have now completed two novels (for which I’m seeking representation). I’ve had some luck getting parts of them published by literary journals, including:

• “Facing Death,” published in The Vassar Review.
• “Getting Fergus,” published in Wayne Literary Review.
• “Jim Bird,” published in Coneflower Café.
• “Jolene,” published in Courtship of Winds (online).