saltwater coffee + day-old humble pie

None of this is my fault.

Such denial just happens. Because I’m a writer, or at least I play at being one through many of the expected trappings of this interminable pursuit, though I’ve certainly fought the tendency over the years to actually call myself by that lofty/lowly title.

Still, eventually we all have to own up to who we are, or else succumb to whatever other people call us, and I’m not about to say which is better, or worse. Especially since sometimes, those two turn out to be exactly the same thing, which brings me back to this:

I’m a writer.

Occupationally.

Aesthetically.

Cantankerously.

Fundamentally.

I’m not saying I’m a good one. I’m not even implying the opposite. I’m simply noting that this is a thing, and I am that thing.

I have apologized often enough for all the inherent human shortcomings that necessarily come with the title, even if I, often as not, I buck under the title itself. But since I am, alas, fundamentally, this thing, this damnable thing, one of those shadow-dwelling writer types, the simple truth is I cannot be trusted not to lie, ever.

Except maybe right now.

Because right now is different.

So rest comfortably, knowing you are knee deep in truth here, kids. If only because I said so. And clearly, we’ve established that you can trust me. And I have a pocketful of candy for you, such are promises.

Now, there doesn’t seem to be anywhere to go from there but, well, everywhere. So …

Here you’ll find a snail’s-pace assembled portfolio of some of what I’ve written and had published through the years, and that I still like, at least mostly, for various newspapers and other word-centric sources, and for myself. Hopefully before too long, I’ll also start posting some of what I’m working on right now. Then again, I might just stick to the lazy route, and stay with the past. Because the past typically bites back a whole lot less.

Yours in whatever this is,

– Frank Rabey