Gary Kloster

It’s quiet, which is a rare thing.  The kids are out with the grandmas, the GW(genius wife) is hard at work, and I’m sitting all alone just listening to the hum of the furnace and the baby monitor.  Waiting for the desk.

They’re delivering it today, the big ass desk that we ordered that will be the Apple’s home, the hiding place for the office supplies (Daughter #1 has adopted the viking approach to procuring material for her art), and a place for me to write.  

Writing.  Genre writing, specifically.  Sci-Fi, fantasy, horror– the geeky stuff.  The good stuff.  Though whether my writing falls into that latter category remains to be seen, I suppose.  Why am I trying to be a writer?  Well, after a life of spent immersing myself in other people’s stories, I want to inflict my own on the public.  At least the small wedge of the public that I can manage to reach.  So for the past three years, when the children have passed out, when the house isn’t in immediate danger of being declared a haz-mat site, when I’ve had enough sleep to be almost coherent, I’ve been tapping away at a keyboard, trying to tell stories.  And then trying to sell them.

So far, some success. Two stories sold, one to the Writers of the Future Contest, one to Baen’s Universe.  Neither is out yet, so I’m only published in a theoretical sense, but that’s good enough for me right now.  So I can pretend, at least, that this might go somewhere.  Someday, I might find an agent.  Someday, I might sell Chosen Wings, my first book.  Or the second book, which still lacks a title- and a middle, and an ending (solid beginning though).  Someday I might sell a third story, and qualify as a pro writer- really!  At least according to SFWA (if I pay to join).  Someday…

Someday I might earn enough from writing to pay for the big ass desk.