I've known two things with certainty as a child, I wanted to join the military, and I wanted to be an author. So, when I turned eighteen, I signed up for the baddest, hardest fuckers on the block. I got one out of the way, but the second seems to be a lot harder.
My stories never seem to come out right, not to me anyways. I have 250,000+ words invested in a stream of off the wall, bad short stories, a few books I started that seemed to tank, and a small story collection of erotica. None of this has been published, except briefly on lulu for the shitty short stories.
I love history,world war two in particular. So, when I read Tigers in the Mud by Otto Carius, it was the usual for me. What wasn't the usual was me picking up a notebook and a pencil, on a whim, and writing a fictional autobiography about a man who had many of Carius's characteristics. I'm forty one pages in, and if I type that and format it, lord only knows how many it would be. I hope to fill the notebook before I try and type it, and throw in a few doodles of things in addition to it. I'll let you all know how that goes, might even explain the plot a little better.