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Norman Maclean once wrote, “I had as yet no notion that life every now and then becomes literature – not for long, of course, but long enough to be what we best remember, and often enough so that what we eventually come to mean by life are these moments when life, instead of going sideways, backwards, forward, or nowhere at all, lines out straight, tense and inevitable, with a complication, climax, and, given some luck, a purgation, as if life had been made and not happened.”

You could definitely say this was beginning to happen sometime early in my college years, maybe sometime in my high school years, but most accurately you could say this was happening from the earliest day I remember: I was in a highchair, with spaghetti sauce covering my face, a stubby baby fork in hand, a fierce grin. This may or may not be a true memory. It may just be the earliest story I remember hearing of myself. That isn’t important. More important is the next passage from Norman Maclean, for it is the catalyst for this site and all that it contains.

He later wrote, “Somewhere along here I first became conscious of the feeling I talked about earlier—the feeling that comes when you first notice your life turning into a story. I began to sense the difference between what I would feel if I were just nearing the end of a summer’s work or were just beginning a story.”

My life, like all lives, was always literature. Would it have been bestselling literature? The world may never know. But it has always been literature; it has been stories, anecdotes, trials, and triumphs. What created this site was at some point I took notice, I recorded, I imagined, I invented. And hopefully, for at least one other person, that will have made all the difference. It has for me at least.

This noticing became relevant during my senior year of college, living at 1015 Far Hills in an apartment that will always provide the setting for some of my fondest memories. It was there I experimented, I dared, I listened, I cooked, I slept, I dreamed. And there, the thought “my thoughts may mean something beyond themselves” took hold and I wrote, even drew: what might have been, was, is, and could be, and could not. My life was no longer just a series of boxes waiting to be checked, but also allowed for escape to thoughts, making letters, making words, making stories, that made all the difference.
 
Please enjoy.

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