About Jacob

Most writers list their extensive accomplishments, educational pedigrees, professional qualifications, and published works in the biography. I have none of those. In fact, I have so little qualification that I'm writing this in the first person, which, according to at least one professional, is the mark of a true amateur. Well, you've got me there. So, instead of telling you about the books I've written and left sitting in a file on my computer, I'm going to tell you about experience.

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Experiences have consequences. They impact us and change us, mold us with invisible hands like a thick atmosphere. I started writing as a way to process my experiences. As a civil servant for over a decade, I’ve encountered a variety of personal experiences that span the depths of humanity. Writing became an outlet. At first, I wrote because I believed I could make a living at it. Then something funny happened. I got happier when I wrote. Even my wife pointed out my mood always seemed improved whenever I was working on a story. Not outlining or sketching out characters. That part usually frustrates me. But when I’m diving into my characters, forcing them to confront each other and the emotions and experiences that have impacted them, I’m happy.

 

Writing always seemed like a silly daydream. In high school, a few teachers told me my writing was pretty good. But writing didn’t seem like a viable source of income. So I went to college, where a couple more instructors complimented my writing, and got a business degree instead. Before I even left the school, I realized I did not want to go into business. While I have a lot of friends who own their own businesses, the whole idea felt self-serving and meaningless. So, I joined the public sector, thinking I would do something good in the world. Several years later, the miasma of small-town politics and the perceived futility of certain kinds of service left me questioning my choices. 

 

And then I wrote.

 

I wrote stories of families broken down by the intangible forces of hopelessness, of people oppressed by the weights of doubt, of the consequences of violence. I wrote things that made my wife and mother question if I was really okay. But you know what? For the first time in a while, I was okay. It felt good to write. I’d once read that writer’s write because they have to write. The absence of writing in their lives was like the absence of an essential nutrient. That sentiment never made sense to me until I started doing it. Now, I get it.

 

If I had it to do all over again, I’d have started with writing from the beginning. Maybe my sentence structure and grammar would be better. Personally, I like to consider my disdain for proper comma usage an endearing quirk.

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