A Small Testament

Before anything else, I want to post something completed to make the whole thing feel real.

Part of me wishes I were already a hundred posts deep—the way you wish on the first day back at the gym that you could cram a hundred workouts into that first session. But I’m trying to train myself to enjoy the process instead of obsessing over the result, because if I were in that much of a rush to reach the end, then I’d be dead—and I’m in no hurry to get there.

I’m doing this because I’ve always liked creating stories. I don’t think I’m unique in that way. Most people imagine their lives as episodes, little narrative arcs that give shape to things. I’ve always felt pulled toward that, and at this point in my life, I want to take the stories I’ve been carrying around and share them with whoever might find something worthwhile in them.

I got away from writing a long time ago because I was so insecure about what I put on the page. Subject, style, ability—it’s one thing to get good grades in high school English, and a completely different thing to try to be “literary.” I never saw myself as an artistic person. Reading other people’s prose felt daunting.

My perspective shifted because of a professor at Sacramento State: Andrew Stoner. He was a reformed public relations expert who taught in the Communication Studies department. He didn’t look the part—mid-50s, tall, big-framed, no flair for style—but he was honest, sincere, and sharp. I was drawn to him immediately. He bridged real-world experience with theory in a way that made a class I took for credit feel surprisingly meaningful.

I’ll never forget what he once said about writing one of his books:

“I can’t turn a phrase, but I know I can outresearch anyone.”

His humility and confidence should have contradicted each other, but they didn’t. His honesty hit me like a bolt of lightning, and I’ve carried it with me ever since. Whenever I feel discouraged about my ability or my voice, I think of that line. It helps me believe I can write stories that mean something.

My grandpa was a bluegrass musician. He played guitar in his kitchenette every night. I don’t know if he ever dreamed of being famous or touring with his jam band, but I do know he loved the sound, the ritual, and the act of making something. I can’t play guitar, but writing feels to me like bluegrass felt to him: an honest craft practiced for its own sake.

Professor Stoner and my grandpa are both gone now. But I’d like this website to be a small testament to them—and to people like them. People who created out of honesty, curiosity, and love for the process. If anything, I hope this space honors that spirit.