Preface
My father was a race car driver, but died before he ever taught me about race cars or how to fix them or how to drive them and shift their gears. He died before all of that and he died before teaching me how to shave or cut the grass. But I like to think I learned more from his death at thirty-six than I would have if he lived until I was thirty-six. I learned that this all could be too short of an existence for me not to do the only thing I consider myself to be good at and the only thing that makes me happy inside, no matter the large amounts of uncertainty that tag along with the choice. So I write.
I spend most of my days reading and writing with my cat, Roxy, always nearby. When I am away from my stories I find there is no happier place to be than the local speedway, sitting high in the stands of turn one with my editor, shelling peanuts and picking winners. On those nights when I return from the track I do not wish to write. It is the only time I do not wish to write, but the next day when I do sit down to write I remember how much I have missed doing so. It is always a first-hand experience for me to flesh out a story, and to consume one, and it is thrilling to know that on a given day I could be doing anything, anywhere in the world. It is also a nice feeling to start with an idea in one place and end up in a different place by completion. In the end there are times of self-ridicule and times of self-reverence, but getting there is always a high-hearted experience. The best part is that no story is ever smooth going.
There are many stories on this blog, and though it really isn’t a blog so much as it is a place to keep my writing, I hope that you will find one that you like. Not all are in the order in which they were originally published, but that I chose to publish them in the first place means that I at least like them and think they are good enough.
Reading them over, the ones I liked best are The Black Man With The Grey Beard; Crying For A Drink; Sarah’s Day; Afraid Of The City And The Night; The Fall Season; The Boy And The Barman; Death Past; My Old Farm, and Joseph Otoo: A Man Of The People.
Anyway, I would like to live longer than my dad who died when he was thirty-six and my mom who died when she was fifty-two, or at least long enough to write a handful of novels and several hundred stories. I have lots to tell.
Beyond that, it is my wish to retain my privacy, which is of great value to me. And my solitude. I’ve never been one to indulge glee in what others see as the pragmatism of work and family and side-attached garages on streets lined with sidewalks.
It robs my characters of their oxygen.
Tyler Kalmakoff
2012
